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Sliealiiig.” I 


Lights and Shadows. 


j’ago 320. 



LIGHTS AND SIIADOANS 


OP 

SCOTTISH LIFE 


- By JOHN WILSON, 

LATB PROKE880K OF HOKAl. PHII.oJiplIY IK THB UNIVEBSITT 0» 
EDINKUBOll, 




NEW YORK: 

ROBERT CARTER & BROTHERS, 
No. 680 BROADWAY. 

1868. 









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CONTENTS 


V, 


PAO« 

The Lily of Liddesdale 6 

Moss-side 29 

An Hour in the Manse 40 

The Head-Stone 52 

Sunset and Sunrise 58 

The Lover’s Last Visit 68 

The Minister's Widow. 77 

The Snow-Storm 90 

The Elder’s Death-Bed 110 

The Elder’s Funeral 124 

The Twins. 13H 

The Poor Scholar 14n 

The Forgers T*. 155 

The Family-Tryst 163 

Blind Allan 187 

Lilias Grieve 202 

•The Covenanter’s Marriage-Day 211 

The Baptism 224 

Simon Gray .231 

The Eainbow 258 

The Omen 279 

Consumption 292 

The Shealing 303 

Helen Eyre 321 



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1.1GHTS AND SHADOWS 


OF 

SCOTTISH LIFE 


THE LILY OF LIDDESDALE 

The country all round rang with the beauty of 
Amy Gordon ; and although it was not known 
who first bestowed upon her the appellation, yet 
she now bore no other than the Lily of Liddesd^e. 
She was the only child of a shepherd, and herself 
a shepherdess. Never had she been out of the val- 
ley in which she was born ; but many had come 
from the neighbouring districts just to look upon 
her, as she rested with her flock on the hill-side ; as 
she issued, smiling from her father’s door; or sat in 
her screner lovehness in the kirk on Sabbath day. 
Sometimes there are living beings in nature as 
beautiful as in romance ; reality surpasses imagi- 
nation; and we see breatliing, brightening, and 
moving before our eyes, sights dearer to our hearts 
than any we ev«r beheld in the land of sleep. 

It was thus that all felt who looked on the Lily 
of Liddesdale. She had grown up under the dews, 
and breath, and light of heaven, among the solitary 
hills ; and, now that she had attained to perfect 
womaidiood, nature rejoiced in the beauty that 
gladdened the stillness of these undisturbed glens 


t> THE LILY OP LIDDESDALE. 

Wliy should this one maiden have been created 
lovelier than all others! In what did her surpass- 
ing loveliness consist! None could tell; for, had 
the most imaginative poet described this maiden, 
somelhing that floated around her, an air of felt 
hut unspeakable grace and lustre, would have been 
wmiting in his picture. Her face was pale, yet 
tinged with such a fail t and leaf-like crimson, that, 
though she well deserved the name of the Lily, yet 
was she at times also like unto the rose. When 
asleep, or in silent thought, she was like the fairest . 
of all the lilied brood ; but when gliding along the 
braes, or singing her songs by the river side, she 
might well remind one of that other brighter and 
more dazzling flower. Amy Gordon knew that 
she was beautiful. She knew it, from the eyes that 
in delight met hers, from the tones of so many gen- 
tle voices, from words of afiection from the old, 
and love from the young, from the sudden smile 
riiat met her when, in the morning, she tied up at 
the little mirror her long raven hair, and from the 
face and figure that looked up to her when she 
stooped to dip her pitcher in fhe clear mountain- 
well. True that she was of lowly birtli, and that 
her manners were formed in a shepherd’s hut, and 
among shepherdesses on the hill. But one week 
passed in the halls of the highly born would have 
sufficed to hide the little graceful symptoms of her 
humble lineage, and to equal her in elegance with 
those whom in beauty she had far excelled. The 
sun and the rain had indeed touched her hands, but 
nature had shaped them delicate and small. Light 
were her footsteps upon the verdant turf, and 
dirough the birchwood glades, and down the rocky 
dells, she glided or bounded along with a beauty 
tliat seemed at once native and alien there ; like 
•ome creature of another clime that still had kin 


THE LfLY OF LIDOESDALE. 7 

(i^ed with this; an Oriental antelope among tlie 
rues of a Scottish forest. 

Amy Gordon had reached her nineteenth sum- 
mer, and as yet she knew of love only as slie ha l 
read of it in old Border songs and ballads. These 
ancient ditties were her delight; and her silent soul 
WJ3 filled with wild and beautiful traditions. In 
them love seemed, for the most part, something 
sad ; and whether prosperous or unhappy, alike 
terminating in tears. In them the young maiden 
was spoken of as dying in her prime, of fever, 
consumption, or a pining heart; and her lover, a 
gallant warrior, or a peaceful shepherd, killed in 
battle, or perishing in some midnight storm. In 
them, too, were sometimes heard blessed voices 
whispering affection beneath the green-wood tree, 
or among the shattered cliffs, overgrown with light- 
waving trees, in some long, deep, solitary glen. 
To Amy Gordon, as she chanted to herself, in the 
blooming or verdant desert, all these various tradi- 
tionary lays, love seemed a kind of beautiful su- 
perstition, belonging to the memory of the dead. 
In such tales she felt a sad and pleasant sympathy ; 
but it was as with something far remote, although 
at times the music of her own voice, as it gave an 
affecting expression to feelings embodied 'n such 
artless words, touched a chord within her heart, 
that dimly told ter that heart might one day have 
its own peculiai and overwhelming love. 

The summer that was now shining had been 
calm and sunny beyond the memory of the oldesi 
shepherd. Never had nature seemed so delightful 
to Amy’s eyes and to Amy’s heart; and never had 
she seemed so delightful to the eyes and the hearts 
of all who beheld her with her flock. Often would 
she wreathe the sprigs of heather round her raven 
rhiglets, till her dark hair was brightened with a 


6 


THE LILY OF LIDDESDALE. 


galaxy of riehest b.ossonis : or, dishevelling hel 
tresses, and letting fall from them that shower of 
glowing and balmy pearls, she would bind them up 
again in simpler braiding, and fix on the silken 
folds two or three water lilies, large, massy, ami 
whiter than the snow. Necklaces did she wear in 
her playful glee, of the purple fruit that feed the 
small birds in the moors ; and beautiful was the 
gentle stain then visible over the blue veins of her 
milk-white breast. So were floating by the days 
of her nineteenth summer among the hills. TJie 
evenings she spent by the side of her gray-headed 
father — and the old man was blest. Her nights 
passed in a world of gentle dreams. 

But though Amy Gordon knew not yet what it 
was to love, she was herself the object of as deep, 
true, tender, and passionate love, as ever swelled 
and kindled within a human breast. Her own 
cousin, Walter Harden, now lived and would have 
died for her; but had not hitherto ventured to tell 
his passion. He was a few years older than her, 
and had long loved her with the gentle purity of a 
brother’s aftection. Amy had no brother of her 
own, and always called Walter Harden by that 
endearing name. That very name of brother had 
probably so familiarized her heart towards hini; 
that never had she thought of him, even for a single 
moment, in any other light. But although he too 
called Amy sister, his heart burned with other feel- 
ings, and he must win her to be his bride, and pos- 
sess her as his wife, or die. When she was a mere 
child he had led her by the hand — when a fair girl 
he had in his arms lifted her across the swollen 
burns, and over the snow-drifts; now that she was 
a woman he had looked on her in silence, but with 
a soul overcharged with a thousand thoughts 
hopes, and desires, which he feared to speak of to 


THE LILY OF LIDDESOALE. 


9 


her ear; for he knew and saw, and felt, in sorrow, 
Jiat she loved him but as a brother. He knew, 
however, that she loved none else ; and in that, and 
that alone, was his hope, — so he at last determined 
to woo the Lily of Liddesdale, and win her, in het 
beauty and fragrance, to bloom within his house. 

The Lily was sitting alone in a deep hollow 
among the hills, with her sheep and lambs pastur- 
^ ing or playing around her, while over that little 
j secluded circle a single hawk was hanging far up 
' in the sky. She was glad, but not surprised, to 
see her brother standing beside her; and when he 
sat down by her side, and took her hand into his, 
she looked upon him with a gentle smile, and ask- 
ed if he was going upon business farther on 
among the hills. Walter Harden instantly pour- 
ed forth in a torrent the passion of his soul ; be- 
seeched her not to shut up her sweet bosom 
against him, but to promise to become, before 
summer was over, his wedded wife. He spoke 
with fervour but trepidation; kissed her cheek, 
and then awaited, with a fast throbbing and palpi- 
tating heart, his Amy’s reply. 

There was no guile, no art, no hypocrisy, in the 
pure and happy heart of the Lily of Liddesdale. 
She took not away her hand from that of him who 
pressed it. She arose not up from the turf, al- 
though la r gentle side just touched hLs heart. She 
turned n away her face so beautiful, nor changed 
the silver} sweetness of her speech. Walter Har- 
den was s jh a man, as in a war of freemen de- 
fending their mountains against a tyrant, would 
have advanced his plume in every scene of danger 
and have been chosen a leader among his pastora 
compeers. Amy turned her large beaming haze 
eyes upon his face, and saw that it was overshad* 
owed. There was something in its expression too 


ftO THE LILY OF LIDliESDALE i 

sad aud solemn, mingling with the flush o( hop* 
and passion, to sufler her, with playful or careless \ 
words, to turn away from herself the meaning of 
what she had heard. Her lover saw in her kind, 
but unagitated silence, that to him she was but a 
sister; and rising to go, he said, “Blessed be then | 
all the days of thy life; — farewell, my sweet Amy 
farewfjl.” 

But they did not thus part. They walked toge- ! 
tbcr on the lonely hill-side, — down the banks of , 
the h*tle wimpling burn — and then out of one ! 
small glen into another; and tlieir talk was affec- 
tionate and kind. Amy heard him speak of feel- 
ings to her unknown, and almost wondered that 
she could be so dear to him, so necessary to his 
life, as he passionately vowed. Nor could such 
vows be unpleasant to her ear, uttered by that 
manly voice, and enforced by the silent speech of 
those bold but gentle eyes. She concealed nothing 
from him, but frankly confessed, that hhherto she 
had looked upon him even as her own father’s 
son. “Let us be happy, Walter, as we have been 
so long. I cannot marry you — oh no — no— but 
since you say it would kill you if I married an- 
other, th(m I swear to you by all that is sacred — 
yes, by the Bible on which Ave have often read to- 
gether, and by yonder sun setting over the Wind- 
head, that you never will see that day.” Walter 
Harden was satisfied ; he spoke of lov< and mar- 
riage no more; and on the SAveet, fr h, airless 
and deAvy quiet of evening, they Avalk d together 
doAvn into the inhabited vale, and parted almost 
like brother and sister, as they had been used to do 
fr-r so many happy years. 

Soon after this Amy was sent by ner father to 
the Priory, the ancient seat of the Elliots, with 
■ome wicker baskets, which they had mad<; for th« 


THE LILY OF LIODESDALE. 


II 


Young ladies there. A small plantation of wi lowd 
was in the corner «)f the meadow in which theii 
cottage stood, and from them the old shepherd 
and his daughter formed many little articles of such 
elegance and ingenuity, that they did not seem out 
if place even in the splendid rooms of the Priory. 
Amy had slung some of these pieces of rural 
workmanship round her waist, while some were 
hanging on her arms, and thus she was gliding 
along a footpath through the old elm-woods that 
shelter the Priory, when she met young George 
Elliot, the heir of that ancient family, going out 
w ith his angle to the river side. The youth, who 
had but a short time before returned from Eng- 
land, where he had been for several years, knew at 
the first glance that the fair creature before him 
could be no other than the Lily of Liddesdale. 
With the utmost gentleness and benignity he call- 
ed her by that name, and after a few words of 
courtesy, he smilingly asked her for one small 
flower-basket to keep for her sake. He unloos- 
ened one from her graceful waist, and with that 
liberty which superior rank justified; but, at the 
same time, with that tenderness which an amiable 
mind prompted : he kissed her "air forehead, and 
they parted — she to the Priory, and he down to 
the Linn at the Cusliat-wood. 

Never had the boy oeheld a creature so perfectly 
beautiful. The silence and the songs of morning 
were upon the dewy woods, when that vision rose 
before him. His soul was full of the joy of youth, 
and when Amy disappeared, he wondered how he 
could have parted so soon — in a few moments — 
from that bright and beaming Dryad. Smiles 
had been in her eyes and round her pearly teeth 
while they spoke together, and he remembered the 
■oft and fragrant lock of hair that touched his lipi 


13 


THE LILY OF LIPDESDALE. 


fts he gently kissed her forehead. The beauty of ^ 
that living creature sank into his soul along with 
all the sweet influences of nature, now rejoicing ; 
in the full, ripe, rich spirit of summer ; and in 
fancy he saw that Lily springing up in every glade 
through which he was now roaming, and when he 
had reached the Linn ; on the bank, too, of every 
romantic nook and bay where the clear waters 
eddied or slept. “ She must recross the bridge on 
her way home,” said the enamoured boy to him | 
self, and fearing that Amy Gordon might already 
be returning from the Priory, he clambered up the i 
face of the shrubby precipice; and, bounding over , 
the large green mossy stones, and through the en- 
tangling briers and brushwood, he soon was at the ‘ 
bridge, and sat down on a high bank, under a clitf, 
commanding a view of the path by which the fair 
maiden must approach on her homeward journey . 

The heart of the innocent Amy had fluttered, 
too, as the tall, slim, graceful stripling had kissed 
her brow. No rudeness — no insult — no pride- 
no haughty freedom had been in bis demeanour 
towards her; but she felt gladly conscious in her : 
mind that he had been delighted with her looks ; 
and would, perhaps, think now and then after- 
wards, as he walked through the woods, of the shep- 
herd’s daughter, with whom he had not disdained 
to speak. Amy thought, while she half looked 
back as he disappeared among the trees, that he 
was just such a youth as the old minstrels sang of 
in their war or love ballads, — and that he was well 
worthy some rich and noble bride, whom he might 
bring to his Hall on a snow-white palfrey with 
silken reins, and silver bells on its mane. And 
she began to recite to herself, as she walk id along, 
one of those old Border tales. 

Amy left her baskets at the Priory, ai d waa 


THE LILV OF LIOVESDALB. IJ 

near tlie bridge on her return, when she beheld 
the young heir spring down from the bank before 
her, and come forward with a sparkling counte* 
nance. “ I must have that sweet tress that hangs 
over thy sweeter forehead,” said he, with a low 
and eager voice;” and I will keep it for the sake 
of the fairest flower that ever bloomed in my fa- 
ther’s woods — even the Lily rf Liddesdale.” The 
lock was given — for how could it be refused ? And 
the sliepherdess saw the young and high-born heir 
of the Priory put it into his breast. She proceed- 
ed across tlie hill, down the long Falcon Glen, 
and through the Witch-wood — and still he was by 
her side. There was a charm in his speech, and 
in every word he said, and in his gentle demean 
our, that touched poor Amy’s very heart ; and, as 
he gave her assistance, although all unneeded, 
over the uneven hollows, and the springs and 
marshes, she had neither the courage, nor the 
wish, nor the power, to request him to turn back 
to the Priory. They entered a small quiet green 
circlet, bare of trees, in the bosom of a coppice- 
wood ; and the youth, taking her hand, made her 
sit down on the mossy trunk of a fallen yew, and 
said: “Amy, my fair Amy, before we part, will 
you sing me one of your old Border songs? and 
let it be one of love. Did not the sons of nobles, 
long ago, often love the daughters of them that 
dwelt in huts?’* 

Amy Gordon sat there an hour with the loving, 
but honourable boy, and sang many a plaintive 
tune, and recited many a romantic story. She 
believed every word she uttered, whether of human 
lovers, or of the affection of fairies, the silent crea- 
tures of the woods and knowes, towards our race. 
For herself, she felt a constant wild delight in Ac- 
tions, which to her ere all as truths ; and sne 


K‘ THE LII,Y OF ^iDDESDALE 

was glad and proud to see how they held, in silent 
attention, him at whose request she recited or 
sang. But now she sprang to her feet, and be- 
8(jeching him to forgive her the freedom she had 
used in thus venturing to speak so long m such a 
presence, but at the same time remembering hat 
a lock of her hair was near his heart, and per- 
ceiving the little basket she had let him take was 
half filled with wild flowers, the Lily of Liddesdale 
made a graceful obeisance, and disappeared. Nor 
did the youth follow her; they had sat together 
for one delightful hour, and he returned by him- 
self to the Priory. 

From this day the trouble of a new delight was 
in the heart of young Elliot. The spirit of inno- 
cence was blended with that of beauty all over 
Amy, the shepherdess; and it was their perfect 
union that the noble boy so dearly loved. Yet 
what could she be to him more than a gleam of 
rainbow light — a phantom of the woods — an ima- 
gination that passed away into the silence of the 
far-off* green pastoral hills? She belonged almost 
to another world — another life. His dwelling, 
and that of his forefathers, was a princely hall. 
She, and all her nameless line, were dwellers in 
turf-built huts. “In other times,” thought he, “I 
might have transplanted that Lily into mine own 
^arden ; but these are foolish fancies ! Am I ii> 
love with poor Amy Gordon, the daughter of a 
shepherd?” As these thoughts were passing 
through his mind he Avas bounding along a ridge 
of hills, from which many a sweet vale was visi- 
ble; and he formed a sudden determination to 
visit the cottage of Amy’s father, which he had 
seen some years ago pointed out when he wag 
with a gay party of lords and ladies, on a visit to 
the ruins of Hermitage Castle. He bounded like 


THE LILY OF LIDDESDALE 


JO 


1 de»!r along; and, as he descended into a littlf 
rale, lo ! on a green mound, the Lily of Liddesdale 
herding her sheep! 

Arny was half terrified to see him standing iu 
his graceful beauty before her in that solitary place. 
In a moment her soul was disquieted within her, 
and she felt that it indeed was love. She wished 
that she might sink into that verdant mound, from 
which she vainly strove to rise, as tlie impassioned 
youth lay down on the turf at her side, and telling 
lier to fear nothing, called her by a thousand ten- 
der and endearing names. Never, till he had seen 
Amy, had he felt one tremor of love; but now his 
heart was kindled, and in that utter solitude, where 
all was so quiet and so peaceful, there seemed t.) 
him a preternatural charm over all her character. 
He burst out into passionate vows and prayers, 
and called God to wii» ess, that if she would love 
him, he would forget all his distinction of rank, 
and marry his beautiful Amy, and she should live 
yet iu his own hall. The words were uttered, and 
there was silence. Their echo sounded for a mo- 
ment strange j to his own ears; but he fixed his 
soul upon her countenance, and repeated them 
over and over again, with wilder emphasis and 
more impassioned utterance. Amy was con- 
founded with fear and perplexity; but when she 
saw him kneeling before her, the meek, innocent, 
humble girl could not endure the sight, and said: 
“ Sir behold in me one willing to be your servant. 
Yes, willing is poor Amy Gordon to kiss your 
feet. 1 am a poor man’s daughter. Oh! Sir, you 
surely came not hither for evil 1 No, no — evil 
fwells not in such a shape. Away then — away 
then, my noble master ; forif Walter Harden were 
to see you!— if my old father knew this, bis henM 
would break!” 


lb THE LILY OF LIE OESDALB. 

Onci more they y.arted. Amy returi ed home 
in the erening, at the usual hour; but there was 
no peace now for her soul. Such intense and 
passionate love had been vowed to her — such win- 
ning and delightful expressions whispered into ’n i 
heart, by one so far above her in all things, but 
who felt no degradation in equalling her to him in 
the warmth and depth of his affection — that she 
sometimes strove to think it all but one of her wild 
dreams, awakened by some verse or incident in 
some old ballad. But she had felt his kisses on 
her cheek — his thrilling voice was in her soul ; and 
she was oppressed with a passion — pure, it is true, 
and most innocently humble — but a passion that 
seemed to be like life itself, never to be overcome, 
and that could cease only when the heart he had 
deluded — for what else than delusion could it be 1 
— ceased to beat. Thus agitated, she had direct- 
ed her way homewards with hurried and heedless 
steps. She minded not the miry pits, the quiver- 
ing marshes, and the wet rushy moors. Instead 
of crossing the little sinuous moor-land streams, 
at their narrow places, where her light feet used to 
bound across them, she waded through them in hei 
feverish anxiety; and sometimes, ^ter hurrying 
along the braes, she sat suddenly down^ breathless, 
weak, and exhausted, and retraced, in weeping 
bewilderment, all the scene of fear, joy, endear- 
ments, caresses, and wild persuasions, from which 
•lie had torn herself away, and escaped. On reach- 
ing home, she went to her bed, trembling and shiv- 
ering, and drowned in tears, and could scarcely 
dare, much as she needed comfort, even to say her 
prayers. Amy was in a high fever — during the 
night she became delirious — and her old father 
•n by her bedside till morning, fearing that he waa 
g .. . w! lose his child. 


THE LILY OP LIDDESDALE. 


n 


There was grief over the great Strath and al 
its glens, when the rumour spread over them tha< 
Amy Gordon was dying. Her wonderful beauty 
had but given a tenderer and brighter character to 
the love which her unsullied innocence and sim 
pie goodness had universally inspired ; and it was 
felt, even among the sobbings of a natural affec- 
tion, that if the Lily of Liddesdale should die, 
something would be taken away of which they 
were all proud, and from whose lustre there was 
a diffusion over their own lives. Many a gentle 
hand touched the closed door of* her cottage, and 
many a low voice inquired how God was dealing 
with her : but where now was Walter Harden 
when his Lily was like to fade 1 He was at her 
bed’s foot, as her father was at its head. Was she 
not his sister, although she would not be his bride 1 
And when he beheld her glazed eyes wandering 
unconsciously in delirium, and felt her blood 
throbbing so rapidly in her beautiful transparent 
veins, he prayed to God that Amy might recover, 
even although her heart were never to be his — 
even although it were to fly to the bosom of him 
whose name she constantly kept repeating in her 
wandering phantasies. For Amy, although she 
sometimes kindly whispered the name of Wal- 
ter Harden, and asked why her brother came not 
to see her on her death-bed, yet far oftener spake 
beseechingly and passionately, as if to that other 
youth, and implored him to break not the heart of 
a poor simple shepherdess, who was willing to kiss 
his feet. 

Neither the father of poor Amy nor Walter 
Harden had known before, that she had ever seen 
young George Elliot ; but they soon understood, 
from the innocent distraction of her speech, that 
the noble boy had left pure the Lily he lnv<.rl 


THE LILY OF LIDDESDALE, 

Waller said, that it belt ngt-d not to that line ercf 
to injure the helpless. Many a pang it gave niin 
no doubt, to think that his Amy’s heart, which ali 
his life-long tenderness could not win, had yielded 
itself up in tumultuous joy, to one — two — three 
meetings of an hour, or perhaps only a few min* 
•jtes, with one removed so high, and so far from 
her jtumble life and all its concerns. These were 
cold and sickening pangs of humiliation and jeal- 
ousy, that might in a less generous nature have 
crushed all love. But it was not so with him ; 
and cheerfully would Walter Harden have taken 
that burning fever into his own veins, so that it 
could have been relieved from hers ; cheerfully 
would he have laid down his own manly head on 
that pillow, so that Amy could have lifted up her 
long raven tresses, now often miserably dishevel- 
led in her ravings, and, braiding them once more, 
walk out well and happy into the sunshine of the 
beautiful day, rendered more beautiful still by her 
presence. Hard would it have been to have re- 
signed her bosom to any human touch ; but hide- 
ous seemed it beyond all thought to resign it to 
the touch of death. Let heaven but avert that 
doom, and his affectionate soul felt that it could 
be satisfied. 

Out of a long, deep, trance-like sleep, Amy at 
Inst awoke, and her eyes fell upon the face of 
W alter Harden. She regarded long and earnest- 
ly its pitying and solemn expression, then pressed 
her hand to her forehead, and wept. “ Is mv fa- 
ther dead and buried — and did he die of grief and 
shame for I 's Amy? Oh! that needed not lun« 
been, for I m innocent. Neither, Walter, have ( 
bn ken, noi will I ever break, my promise un*o 
th^'e; — I remember it well — by the Bible, and yon 
But I am weak and faint. Oh! toL 


THE I.II.V OF LIDOESDALE. 

me, Walter, all that has happened ! Have . been 
ill for hours, or for days, or weeks, or months?— 
for that I know not — so wild and so stran<>^e, so 
sad and so sorrowful, so miserable and so wretch- 
ed, have been my many thousand dreams!” 

There was no concealment and no disguise. 
Amy was kindly and tenderly told by her father and 
her brother all that she had uttered, as far as they 
understood it, during her illness. Nor had the 
innocent creature any thing more to tell. Her 
soul was, after the fever, calm, quiet, and happy 
The form, voice, and shape of that beautiful youth 
were to her little more now than the words and the 
sights of a dream. Sickness and decay had 
brought her spirits back to all the hunjbie and 
tranquil thoughts and feelings of her lowly life, 
fn the woods, and among the hills, that bright and 
noble being had for a time touched her senses, her 
heart, her soul, and her imagination. All was 
new, strange, stirring, irresistible, and paradise to 
her spirit. But it was gone — and might it stay away 
for ever, so she prayed, as her kind brother lifted 
up her head with his gentle hand, and laid it down 
as gently on the pillow he had smoothed. “ Wal 
ter, I will be your wife ! for thee my affection is 
calm and deej) — but that other — oh ! that was only 
a passing dream!” Walter leaned over her, and 
kissed her pale lips. “Yes! Walter,” she contin- 
ued, “I once promised to marry none other; but 
now I promise to marry thee — if indeed God will 
forgive me for such words ; lying, as I am per- 
haps, on my death-bed. I utter fhem to make you 
happy. If I live, life will be dearer to me only for 
thy sake — if I die, walk thou along with my father 
at the coffin’s head, and lay thine Amy in the 
mould. 1 am the Lily of Lidu«..sdale; you know 
diut was once the vain' creature’s name! — and 


20 


TIIK LILY OF LIDDESDALE 


while, pale, and williered encngh indeed >s, I trcw 
the poor Lily now!” 

Walter Harden heard her affectionate wo 
with a deep delight, but he determined in his son. 
not to bind Amy down to these promises, sacred 
and feiTent as they were, if, on her complete re 
covery, hi discovered that they originated in graii 
tnde, and not in love. From pure and disinterest 
ed devotion of spirit did he watch the progress o. 
her recovery, nor did he ever allude to young Elli- 
ot but in terms of respect and admiration. Amy 
had expressed her surprise that he had never come 
to inquire how she was during her illness, and add- 
ed, M'ith a sigh, “ Love at first sight cannot be 
thought to last long, — yet surely he would have 
wept to hear that I was dead.” Walter then told 
her that he bad been hurried away to France, the 
very day after she had seen him, to attend the 
death-bed of his father, and had not yet returned 
to Scotland; but that the ladies of the Priory had 
sent a messenger to know how she was every day, 
and that to their kindness tvas ow'ing many of the 
conveniences she Ixad enjoyed. Poor Amy was 
glad to hear that she had no reason to think the 
noble boy would have neglected her in her illness ; 
and she could not but look with pride upon her 
lover, who was not afraid to vindicate the character 
of one who she had confessed had been but too 
dear only a few weeks ago. This generosity and 
manly confidence on the part of her cousin quite 
won and subdued her heart, and Walter Harden 
never approached her now, without awakening in 
her bosom something of that delightful agitation 
and troubled joy which her simple heart had first 
suffered in the presence of her young noble lover. 
Amy was in love with Weaker almost as much as 
ce was with her, and tlie names of brother and 


THE LILY OF LIDDESDALE. 21 

sister, pleasant as they had ever been, were now 
laid aside. 

Amy Gordttn rose from her sick bed, and even 
ns the flower whose name she bore, did she again 
lift up her drooping head beneath the dew s and th 
sunshine. Again did she go to the hill-side, and 
sit and sing beside her flock. But Walter Harden 
M’as oftener with her than before, and ere the har- 
vest moon should hang her mild, clear, unhaloed 
orb over the late reapers on the upland grain-fields, 
had Amy promised that she would become his 
wife. She saw him now in his own natural light 
—the best, the most intelligent, the most industri- 
ous, and the handsomest shepherd over all the 
hills ; and when it was know'n that there was to be 
a marriage between Walter Harden and Amy Gor- 
don, none felt surprised, although some, sighing, 
said, it was seldom, indeed, that fortune so allowed 
those to wed whom nature had united. 

The Lily of Liddesdale was now bright and 
beautiful as ever, and was returning homewards by 
herself from the far-ofif hill during one rich gold 
sunset, when, in a dark hollow, she heard the 
sound of horses’ feet, and in an instant young 
George Elliot was at her side. Amy’s dream was 
over, and she looked on the beautiful youth with 
an uiiquaking heart. “I have been far aw'ay, 
Amy — across the seas. My father — you may have 
heard of it — was ill, and I attended his bed. 1 
loved him, Amy; — 1 loved my father, but he is 
dead and here the noble youth’s tears fell fast. 
“ Nothing, now, but the world’s laugh, preveiXs me 
making you my wife ; yes, my wife, sweetest Lily 
— and what care I for the world! for thou art both 
earth and heaven to me.” 

The impetuous, ardent, and impassionate boy, 
scarcely looked in Amy’s face; he remembered 


22 


THE LILY OF LIDDESEIVLE. 


her confusion, liei fear, her sighs, her tears, }iii 
half-permitted kisses, his faintly repelled embraces 
and all his suffered endearments of brow, lip, and 
cheek, in that solitary dell; so, with a powerfu 
arm, he lifted her upon another steed, Mdiich, till 
now she had scarcely observed. Other horsemen 
seemed, to the frightened, and speechless, and mo- 
tioniess maiden, to be near ; and away they went, 
over the smooth turf, like the wind, till her eyes 
were blind with the rapid flight, and her head diz- 
zy. She heard kind words whispering in her ear; 
but Amy, since that fever, had never been so strong 
as before, and her high-blooded palfrey was now 
carrying her fleetly away over hill and hollow in 
a swoon. 

At last she seemed to be falling down from a 
height, but softly, as if borne on the wings of the 
air ; and as her feet touched the ground, she knew 
that young Elliot had taken her from that fleet 
courser; and, looking up, she saw that she was in 
a wood of old shadowy trees, of gigantic size, per- 
fectly still, and far away from all known dwellings 
both on hill and plain. But a cottage was before 
her, and she and young Elliot were on the green 
in its front. It was thickly covered with honey- 
suckles, and moss-roses that hung their beautiful 
full-bloAvn shining lamps high as the thatched roof 
— and Amy’s soul sickened at the still, secluded, 
lovely, and lonely sight. “ This shall be our bri- 
dal abode,” whispered her lover, into her ear, with 
a panting bieath. “Fear me not — distrust me 
not ; — I am not base ; but my love to thee is ten- 
der and true. Soon shall we be married — aye, 
this very evening must thou be mine; and may 
the hand that now clasps thy sweet waist wither, 
and the tongue that woos thee be palsied, if ever 1 


THE LILY OF LIDDESDALE. 


23 


eease to love thee as my Amy — my Lily — my 
wedded wife !” 

The wearied and half-fainting maiden could aa 
yet make no reply. The dream that she had be- 
lieved was gone for ever, now brightened upon her 
in the intense liglrt of reality, an 1 it was in her 
power to become the wife of him for whom she 
had, in the innocence and simplicity of her nature, 
once felt a consuming passion, that had brought 
her to the brink of the grave. His warm breath 
was on her bosom — words, charged with bewitch- 
ing persuasion, went thrilling through her heart- 
strings — and if she had any pride, (and what hu- 
man heart has it not 1) it might well mingle now 
with love, and impel her into the embrace that 
was now open to clasp her close to a burning 
heart. 

A stately and beautiful lady came smiling from 
the cottage door, and Amy knew that it was the 
sister of Elliot, and kneeled down before her. 
Last time the shepherdess had seen that lady, it 
was when, with a fearful step, she took her baskets 
into the hall, and blushing, scarcely lifted up her 
eyes, when she and her high-born sisters deigned 
to commend her workmanship, and whisper unto 
each other that the Lily of Liddesdale deserved 
her name. “Amy,” said she, with a gentle voice, 
as she took her hand ; “Amy Gordon ! my brother 
loves you, and he has won me to acknowledge 
you as my sister. I can deny my brother nothing 
— and his grief has brought low the pride — per- 
haps the foolish pride — of my heart. Will you 
marry him. Amyl Will you, the daughter of a 
poor shepherd, marry the young heir of the Priory, 
and the descendant, Amy, of a noble race 1 Amy 
I see that thou art beautiful — I know that thou art 
juod ; — may God and my mother forgive me this 


24 


THE LILY Of l,/DOESDALE. 


but my sister must thou be. Behold, my brolhei 
is at his shepherdess’s feet!” 

Amy Gordon had now nothing to fear. That 
sweet, young, pure, noble lady, was her friend ; 
and she felt persuaded now, that in good truth 
young Elliot wished to make her his wife. Might 
she indeed live the Lady of the Priory — be a sister 
to these beautiful creatures — dwell among those 
ancient woods, and all those spacious lawns and 
richest gardens 1 — and might she be, not in a dream, 
but in living reality, the wife of him on whose 
bosom her heart had died with joy in that lonely 
dell ; and love him and yield him her love, even 
unto tlie very hour till she was dead? Such 
changes of estate had been long ago, and sung of 
in many a ballaa ; and was she to be the one 
maiden of millions — the one born in hundreds of 
years, to whom this blessed lot was to befall? — 
But these thoughts passed on and away like sun- 
rays upon a stream ; — the cloud, not a dark one, 
of reality, returned over her. She thought of 
Walter Harden, and in an instant her soul was 
fixed ; nor from that instant could it be shaken by 
terror or by love ; by the countenance of death, 
or the countenance, far more powerful than of 
death, that of the youth before her, pale and 
flushed alternately with the fluctuations of many 
passions. 

Amy felt in her soul the collected voice, as it 
were, of many happy and humble years among 
her hills, and that told her not to forsake her own 
natural life. The flower that lived happily anrl 
beautifully in its own secluded nook, by the side 
of the lonely tarn, or torrent, might lose much, 
both of its fragrance and its lustre, when trans- 
planted into a richer soil and more sheltered bed. 
Gould she forget for ever her father’s ingle — th« 


THE LILY OI LIDDESDALE. 


26 


eirthen floor — its simple furniture of day and 
night ? Could she forget all the familiar places 
round about the hut where she was born ? And if 
she left them all, and was taken up even in the 
arms of love into another sphere of life, would 
not that he the same, or worse than to forget 
!liem ; and would it not be sacrilege to the holi- 
ness of the many Sabbath nights on which she 
had sat at her widowed father’s knees? Yet 
aught such thoughts have been destroyed in her 
beating heart by the whispering music of young 
Elliot’s eloquent and impassioned voice. But 
Walter Harden, though ignorant of her present 
jeopardy, seemed to stand before her, and she re- 
membered his face when he sat beside her dying 
bed — his prayers over her, when he thought she 
slept, and their oaths of fidelity mutually sworn 
Defore the great God. 

“Will you, my noble and honoured master, suf- 
fer me, all unworthy as I am to be yours, to leave 
your bosom ? Sir, I am too miserable about you, 
to pretend to feel any offence, because you will 
not let me go. I might well be proud of your 
love, since, indeed, it happens so that you do love 
me ; but let me kneel down at your beautiful sis- 
ter’s feet, for to her I may be able to speak ; — to 
you I feel that it may not be, for, humble am I, 
although unfortunately 1 have found favour in 
your eyes.” 

The agitated youth released Amy from his arms, 
and she flung herself down upon lier knees before 
that lovely lady. 

“ La(^ ! hear me speak — a simple, uneducated 
girl of the hills, and tell me if you would wish to 
hear me break an oath sworn upon the Bible, and 
so to lose my immortal soul ? So have I sworn 
to be the wife of Walter Hard'u.^ — the wife of a 


2C THE LILY 'jr LIDHESDALE. 

poor shepherd ; and, lady, may I be on the left 
Imnd of God at the great judgment-day if ever 1 
be foresworn. I love Walter Harden. Do you 
counsel me to break his kind, faithful heart? O, 
Sir, my noble young master, how dare a creature 
such as 1 to speak so freely to your beautiful sis- 
ter? — how dare I keej: my eyes open when you 
are at your servant’s fe :t ? Oh! Sir, had 1 been 
born a lady, I would have lived, died for you — 
gone with you all over the world, all over the sea, 
and all the islands of the sea. I would have sigh- 
ed, wept, and pined at/ay, till I had won your 
love ; for your love would have been a blessed 
thing, that do I well know, from the few moments 
you stooped to let your heart beat against the bo- 
som of a low-born shepherdess. Even now, dear- 
ly as I love Walter Harden, fain would I lay me 
down and die upon this daisied green, and be 
buried beneath it, rather than that poor Amy Gor- 
don should affect the soul of her young master 
thus ; for never saw I, and never can I again see, 
a youth so beautiful, so winning, so overwhelming 
to a maiden’s heart, as he before whom I now im- 
plore permission to grovel in the dust. Send me 
away — spurn me from you — let me crawl away 
out of yosr presence ; — I can find my way back 
to my father’s house.” 

Ii^might have been a trying thing to the pride of 
this high-minded and high-born youth to be refused 
in marriage by the daughter of one of his poorest 
shepherds ; so would it have been had he loved 
less ; but all pride was extinguished, and so seem- 
ed for ever and ever the light of this world’s hap 
piness. To plead further he felt was in vain. Her 
soul had been given to another, and the seal of an 
oath set upo it, never to be broken but by the 
hand of death. So he lifted her up in his arms 


THE LILY OF LIODESDALE. 


3 ? 


kissed lier madly a hundred times, cheek, brow, 
neck, and bosom, and then rushed into the woods. 
Amy followed him with her streaming eyes, aud 
then turned again towards the beautiful lady, who 
was sobbing audibly for her brother’s sake. 

“ Oh ! weep not, lady ! that I, poor Amy Gor 
don, have refused to become the wife of your no 
ble brother. The time will come, and soon too, 
when he and you, and your fair sisters, and your 
stately mother, will all be thankful that I yielded 
not to entreaties that would then have brought dis- 
grace upon your house ! Never — never would 
your mother have forgiven you ; and as for me — 
would not she have wished me dead and buried, 
rather than the bride of her only and darling son? 
You know that, simple and innocent as I am, 1 
now speak but the truth ; and how, then, could 
your noble brother have continued to love me, 
who had brought dishonour, and disagreement, 
and distraction, among those who are now all so 
dear to one another? O yes — yes, he would soon 
have hated poor Amy Gordon, and, without any 
blame, perhaps, broken my heart, or sent me away 
from the Priory back to my father’s hut. Blessed 
be God that all this evil has not been wrought by 
me ! All — all — all will soon be as before.” 

She to whom Amy thus fervently spoke felt that her 
words were not wholly without truth. Nor could 
she help admiring the noble, heroic, and virtuous 
conduct of this poor shepherdess, whom all this 
world’s temptations would have failed to lure froui 
the right path. Before this meeting she had thought 
of Amy as far her inferior indeed^, and it was long 
before her proper pride had yielded to the love of 
her brother, whose passion she feared might other- 
wise have led to some horrible catastrophe. Now 
that he had fled from them in distraction, this ter* 


28 


THE LILY OF LIDDESDALE. 


ror again possessed her, and she whispered it to 
the pale, trembling shepherdess. “Follow him, 
follow him, gentle lady, into the wood ; — lose not 
a moment — call upoi him by name, and that 
sweet voice must bring him back. But fear not; 
— he is too good to do evil : — fear not ; receive my 
blessing ; and let me return to my father’s hut ; 
It is but a few miles, and that distance is nothing 
to one who has lived all her life among the hills. 
My poor father will think I have died in some so- 
litary place.” 

The lady wept to think that she, whom she had 
been willing to receive as a sister, should return 
all by herself, so many miles at night, to a lonely 
hut. But her soul was sick with fear for her bro- 
ther: so she took from her shoulders a long, rich 
Indian silk scarf, of gorgeous colours, and throw- 
ing it over Amy’s figure, said — “Fair creature, 
and good, keep this for my sake — and now, fare- 
well.” She gazed on the Lily for a moment in 
delighted wonder at her graceful beauty, as she 
bent on one knee, enrobed in that unwonted garb, 
and then rising up, gathered the flowing drapery 
around her, and disappeared. 

“ God in his infinite mercy be praised,” cried 
Walter Harden, as he and the old man, who had 
been seeking Amy for hours all over the hills, saw 
the Lily gliding towards them up a little narrow 
dell, covered from head to foot with the splendid 
raiment that shone in a soft shower of moonlight, 
loy and astonishment for a while held them 
speechless ; but they soon 'knew' all that had hap- 
jiened. and Weaker Harden lifted her up in his 
arms and carried her home, exhausted now, and 
faint with fatigue and trepidation, as if she were 
but a Iamb rescued from a snow'-wreath. 

Next moon was that wind: the reapers love— 


MOSS-SIDE. 


29 


and before it had waned Amy slept in the bosom 
of her husband, Walter Harden. Years passed 
on, and other flowers besides the Lily of Liddes- 
dale w^ere blooming in his house. One summer 
evening, when the shepherd, his fair wife, and their 
children, were sitting together on the green before 
the door, enjoying probably the sight and the noise 
of the imps much more than the murmurs of the 
sylvan Liddel, which perhaps they did not hear, a 
gay cavalcade rode up to the cottage, and a noble- 
looking young man, dismounting from his horse, 
and gently assisting a beautiful lady to do the 
same, walked up to her whom he had known only 
by a name now almost forgotten, and, with a 
beaming smile, said — “ Fair Lily of Liddesdale, 
this is my wife — the Lady of the Priory : come, 
it is hard to say wdiich of you should bear off* the 
bell.” Amy rose from her seat with an air grace- 
ful as ever, but something more matronly than that 
of Elliot’s younger bride ; and while these two 
fair creatures beheld each other with mutual admi- 
ration, their husbands stood there equally happy 
and equally proud — George Elliot of the Piiory 
and Walter Harden of the Glenfoot. 


MOSS-SIDE. 

Gilbert Ainslie was a poor man ; and he had 
been a poor man all the days of his life, woich 
were not few, for his thin hair was now waxing 
gray. He had been born and bred on the small 
moorland farm which he now occupied ; and he 
hoped to die there, as his father and grandfather 


30 


MOSS-SIDE. 


had done before him, leaving a family just abov« 
Jie more bitter wants of this world. Labour, 
Hard and unremitting, had been his lot in life ; but 
although sometimes seven ly tried, he had never 
••epined ; and through all the mist and gloom, and 
even the storms that had assailed him, he had lived 
on from year to year in that calm and resigneii 
contentment which unconsciously cheers the 
hearth-stone of the blameless poor. With his 
own hands he had ploughed, sowed, and reaped 
his often scanty harvest, assisted, as they grew up, 
by three sons, who, even in boyhood, were ha])py 
to work along with their father in the fields. Oul 
of doors or in, Gilbert Ainslie was never idle. The 
sj)ad(*, the shears, the plough-shaft, the sickle, and 
the flail, all came readily to hands that grasped 
them well ; and not a morsel of food was eaten 
under his roof, or a garment worn there, that was 
not honestly, severely, nobly earned : Gilbert Ain- 
slie was a slave, but it was for them he loved with 
a sober and deep affection. The thraldom under 
which he lived God had imposed, and it only served 
to give his character a shade of silent gravity, but 
not austere ; to make his smiles fewer, but more 
heartfelt ; to calm his soul at grace before and 
after meals ; and to kindle it in morning and even- 
ing prayer. 

There is no need to tell the character of the 
wife of such a man. Meek and thoughtful, yet 
gladsome and gay withal, her heaven was in her 
house ; and her gentler and weaker hands helped 
to bar the door against want. Of ten children that 
had been born to them, they had lost three ; and 
as they had fed, clothed, and educated them rc- 
stiectably, so did they give them who died a re- 
spectable funeral. The living did not grudge to 
give up, for a wliile, some of their daily comforts^ 


MOSS-SIDE. 


8. 


for tlie sake of ihe dead ; and bought, with the 
little sums which their industry had saved, decent 
mournings, worn on Sabbath, and then carefully 
laid by. Of the seven that survived, two sous 
were farm-servants in the neighbourhood, wliile 
lliree daughters and two sons remained at home, 
growing up, a small, happy, hard-working hous^ 
hold. 

Many cottages are there in Scotland like Moss- 
side, and many such humble and virtuous cotta- 
gers as were now beneath its roof of straw. The 
eye of the passing traveller may mark them, or 
mark them not, but they stand peacefully in thou- 
sands over all the land ; and most beautiful do 
they make it, through all its wide valleys and nar- 
row glens — its low holms, encircled by the rocky 
walls of some bonny burn — its green mounts, ela- 
ted with their little crowning groves of plane- 
trees, — its yellow corn-fields — its bare pastoral 
hill-sides, and all its healthy moors, on whose black 
bosom lie shining or concealed glades of excessive 
verdure, inhabited by fiowers, and visited only by 
the far-flying bees. Moss-side was not beautiful 
to a careless or hasty eye ; but when looked on 
and surveyed it seemed a jileasant dwelling. Its 
roof, overgrown with grass and moss, was almost 
as green as the ground out of which its weather- 
stained walls appeared to grow. The moss be- 
hind it was separated from a little garden by a 
narrow slip of arable land, the dark colour of 
which showed that it had been won from the wild 
by patient industry, and by patient industry retain 
ed. It required a bright sunny day to make Mos*- 
Bide fair ; but then it was fair indeed : and when 
the little brown moorland birds were singing their 
short songs among the rushes and the heather, of 
a lark, perhaps lured thither by some green barlev 


MUSS-S1I>E. 


itih 

field for its undisturbed nest, rose singing all ovei 
tlie enlivened solitude, the little bleak farm smiled 
like the paradise of poverty, sad and afiecting in 
its lone and extreme simplicity. The boys ami 
oirls had made some plots of flowers among the 
vegetables that the little garden supplied for tlieir 
homely meals ; pinks and carnations, brought 
from walled gardens of rich men farther down in 
the cultivated strath, grew here with somewhat di- 
minished lustre ; a bright show of tulips had a 
strange beauty in the midst of that moorland ; 
and the smell of roses, mixed well with that of the 
clover, the beautiful fair clover, that loves the soil 
and the air of Scotland, and gives the rich and 
balmy milk to the poor man’s lips. 

In this cottage, Gilbert’s youngest child, a girl 
about nine years of age, had been lying for a week 
in a fever. It was now Saturday evening, and 
tlie ninth day of the disease. "Was she to live or 
die ? It seemed as if a very few hours were be- 
tween the innocent creature and heaven. All the 
symptoms were those of approaching death. The 
parents knew well the change that comes over the 
human face, whether it be in infancy, youth, or 
prime, just before the departure of the spirit; and 
as they stood together by Margaret’s ted, it seem- 
ed to them that v*he fatal shadow had fallen upon 
her features. The surgeon of the parish lived 
some miles distant, but they expected him now 
every moment, and many a wistful look was di- 
rected by tearful eyes along the moor. ’I'lie 
daughter, who was out at service, came anxiously 
home on this night, the only one that could bo al 
lowed her, for the poor must work in their grief, 
and their servants must do their duty to those whose 
bread they eat, even when nature is sick — sick al 
heart. Another of the daughters came in from 


MOHB-BIOE. 


38 


lh« potato-field beyond the brae, with what was to 
ne their frugal supper. The calm, noiseless spirit 
of life was in and around the house, while death 
seemed dealing with one who, a few days ago, was 
like light upon the floor, and the sound of music, 
that always breathed up when most wanted ; glad 
and joyous in common talk — sweet, silvery, and 
mournful, when it joined in hymn or psalm. One 
after the other, they continued goingup to the bed- 
side, and then coming away, sobbing or silent, tc 
see their merry little sister, who used to keep danc 
ing all day like a butterfly in a meadow-field, or 
like a butterfly with shut wings on a flower, trifling 
lor a while in the silence of her joy, now tossing 
1 estlessly on her bed, and scarcely sensible of the 
.rords of endearment whispered around her, or 
the kisses dropt with tears, in spite of themselves, 
«»n her burning forehead. 

Utter poverty often kills the affections; bwt a 
deep, constant, and common feeling of this world’s 
hardships, and an equal participation in all those 
struggles by which they may be softened, unite 
husband and wife, parents and children, brofthers 
and sisters, in thoughtful and subdued tenderness, 
making them happy indeed while the circle round 
the fire is unbroken, and yet preparing them every 
day to bear the separation, when some one or 
other is taken slowly or suddenly away. Theii 
souls are not moved by fits and starts, although, 
indeed, nature sometimes will wrestle with neces- 
sity; and there is a wise moderation both in the 
I joy and the grief of the intelligent poor, which 
keeps lasting trouble away from their earthly lot, 
and prepares them silently and unconsciously fo» 
t eaven. 

“ Do you tliink the child is dying?” said Gil 
oerl, with a calm voice, to the surgeon, who, 


MOSS-SIUE. 


' 1 

his wearied liorse, liad just arrived from anotlie! 
sick-bed, over the misty range of hills; and liad 
been looking steadfastly for some minutes on the 
little patient. The humane man knew the family 
well in the midst of whom he was standing, and 
replied — “While there is life there is hope; but 
my [iretty little Margaret is, I fear, in the last ex- 
tremity.” There was no loud lamentation at theK 
words : — all had before known, though they would 
not confess it to themselves, what they now were 
told ; — and though the certainty that was in the 
words of the skilful man made their hearts beat 
for a little with sicker throbbings, made their pale 
faces paler, and brought out from some eyes a 
greater gush of tears ; yet death had been before 
in this house, and in this case he came, as he al- 
ways does, in awe, but not in terror. There were 
wandering and wavering and dreamy delirious 
phantasies in the brain of the innocent child ; but 
the few words she indistinctly uttered were aftect- 
ing, not rending to the heart, for it was plain that 
she thought herself herding her sheep in the green 
silent pastures, and sitting wrapped in her plaid 
upon the lawn and sunny side of the Birk-knowe. 
She was too much exhausted — there was too little 
life — too little breath in her heart, to frame a tune; 
but some of her words seemed to be from favourite 
old songs ; and at last her mother wept, and turn- 
ed aside her face, when the child, whose blue eyes 
were shut, and her lips almost still, breathed out 
ihese lines of the beautiful twenty-third psalm : 

The Lord’s my Sheplierd, I’ll not want, 

He makes me down to lie 

In pastures green : he leadeth me 
The quiet waters hy. 

f ho child was now left with none but her luu 


MOSS-SIDE. 


as 


llier by the bed-side, for it was said to be best so 5 
and Gilbert and his family sat down round the kit 
chen fire, for a while, in silence. In about a quar- 
ter of an hour they began to rise calmly, and to 
go each to his allotted work. One of the daugh- 
ters went forth with the pail to milk the cow, and 
another began to set out the table in the middle of 
the floor for supper, covering it with a white cloth. 
Gilbert viewed the usual household arrangements 
with a solemn and untroubled eye ; and there was 
almost the faint light of a grateful smile on his 
cheek, as he said to the worthy surgeon, “ You 
will partake of our fare, after your day’s travel 
and toil of humanity.” In a short, silent half 
hour, the potatoes and oatcakes, butter and milk, 
were on the board ; and Gilbert lifted up his toil- 
hardened, but manly hand, with a slow motion, at 
which the room was hushed as if it had been emp- 
ty, closed his eyes in reverence, and asked a bless- 
ing. There was a little stool, on which no one 
sat, by the old man’s side. It had been put there 
unwittingly, when the other seats were all placed 
in their usual order ; but the golden head that was 
wont to rise at that part of the table was now 
wanting. There was silence, — not a word was 
said, — their meal was before them, — God had been 
thanked, and they began to eat. 

While they were at their silent meal, a horse- 
man came galloping to the door, and, with a loud 
voice, called out that he had been sent express with 
a letter to Gilbert Ainslie ; at the same time rudely, 
and with an oath, demanding a dram for his trou- 
ble. The eldest son, a lad of eighteen, fiercely 
seized the bridle of his horse, and turned his head 
away from the door. The rider, somewhat alarm- 
ed at the flushed facs of the po^ferful stripling, 
threw down the letter, and rode off. Gilbert ♦ook 


3G 


MOSS-SIDE. 


the letter from liis son’s hand, casting, at the same 
time, a half-upbraiding look on his face, that was 
returning to its former colour. “ 1 feared,” said 
the youth, with a tear in his eye, “ I feared that 
the brute’s voice, and the trampling of the horse’s 
feet, would have disturbed her.” Gilbert held tie 
letter hesitatingly in his hand, as if afraid, at th ; 
moment, to read it ; at length he said aloud to the 
surgeon, “You know that I am a poor man, and 
debt, if justly incurred, and punctually paid when 
due, is no dishonour.” Both his hand and his 
voice shook slightly as he spoke ; but he ojtened 
the letter from the lawyer, and read it in silence. 
At this moment his wife came from her child’s 
Ited-side, and looking anxiously at her husband, 
told him “ not to mind about the money, — that no 
man, who knew him, would airesi his goods, or 
put him into prison ; — though, dear me, it is cruel 
to be put to it thus, when our bairn is dying, and 
when, if so be the Lord’s will, she ehould have a 
decent burial, poor innocent, like them that went 
before her.” Gilbert continued reading the letter 
with a face on which no emotion could be discov- 
ered ; and then, folding it up, he gave it to his 
wife ; told her she might read it if she chose, and 
then put it into his desk in the room, beside the 
poor dear bairn. She took it from him without 
reading it, and crushed it into her bosom ; for she 
turned her ear towards her child, and, thinking 
she heard it stir, ran out hastily to its bed-side. 

Another hour of trial past, and the child was 
still swimming for its life. The very dogs knew 
(here was grief in the house, and lay without stir- 
ring, as if hiding themselves, below the long table 
at the window. One sister sat with an unfinished 
g( wn on her knees, that she had been sewing for 
the dear child, and still continued at the hofio.esR 


MOSS-SIDE. 


37 


irork, she scarcely knew why ; and often, often*, 
putting up her hand to wipe away a tear “ What 
is that V s id the old man to his eldest daughter ; 
“ what is that you are laying on the shelf?” She 
could scarcely reply that it was a riband and an 
ivory comb she had brought for little Margaret, 
against the night of the dancing-school ball. 
And, at these words, the father could not restrain 
a long, deep, and bitter groan ; at which the boy 
nearest in age to his dying sister, looked up weep- 
ing in his fa^e, and letting the tattered book of old 
ballads, which he had been poring on but not read- 
ing, fall out of ln« hands, he rose from his seat, 
and, going into his father’s bosom, kissed him, and 
asked God to bless him ; for the holy heart of the 
boy was moved within him ; and the old man as 
he embraced him, felt that, in his innocence and 
simplicity, he was indeed a comforter. “ The 
Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away,” said the 
old man ; “ blessed be the name of the Lord.” 

The outer door gently opened, and he, whose 
oresence had in former years brought peace and 
resignation hither, when their hearts had been tried, 
even as they now were tried, stood before them. 
On the night before the Sabbath, the minister of 
Auchiiuiown never left his Manse, except, as now, 
to visit tiic sick or dying bed. Scarcely could Gil- 
bert reply to his first question about his child, when 
tlie surgeon c.ame from the bed-room, and said, 
“ Mai-garet seems lifted uji by God’s hand above 
death and the grave : I think she will recover. 
She has fallen asleep ; and, when she wakes, I 
hope — I believe — that the danger will be past, and 
that your child will live.” 

They were all prepared for death ; but now they 
were found unprepared for life. One wept that 
bad till then locked up all her tears within her 

4 


98 


MOSS-SII/E. 


heart ; anotlier gaii e a short palpitating shriek ; 
and the tcnder-liearted Isabel, who had nursed the 
child when it was a baby, fainted away. The 
youngest brother gave way to gladsome smiles ; 
and, calling out his dog Hector, who used to sport 
with him and his little sister on the moor, he told 
the tidings to the dumb irrational creature, whose 
eyes, it is certain, sparkled with a sort of joy. The 
clock, for some days, had been prevented from 
striking the hours ; but the silent fingers pointed 
tc the hour of nine ; and that, in the cottage of 
Gdbert Ainslie, was the stated hour of family wor- 
ship. His own honoured minister took the book : 

He waled a portion with judicious care ; 

And, Let us w’orship God, he said, with solemn air. 

A chapter was read — a prayer said ; — and so, 
too, -was sung a psalm ; but it was sung low, and 
with suppressed voices, lest the child’s saving sleep 
might be broken ; and now and then the female 
voices trembled, or some one of them ceased alto- 
gether; for there had been tribulation and anguish, 
and now hope and faith w'ere tried in the joy of 
thanksgiving. 

The child still slept ; and its sleep seemed more 
sound and deep. It appeared almost certain tha' 
the crisis was over, and that the flower was not ♦ 
fade. “ Children,” said Gilbert, “ our hajipiuf v 
is in the love we bear to one another ; and our 
duty is in submitting to and serving God. («ra- 
cious, indeed, has he been unto us. Is not the 
recovery of our little darling, dancing, singing 
Margaret, worth all the gold that ever was mined ! 
If we had had thousands of tJiousands, would wa 
not have filled up her grave with the worthless 
dross 3' gold, lather than that she should have 


WOSS-SIDK. 


99 


^ne down tliere witli her 5wcet fece and all her 
rosy smiles There was no reply ; but a joyful 
sobbing all over the room. 

“ Never mind the letter, nor the debt, father,” 
said the eldest daughter. We have all some little 
thing of our own, a few pounds — and we shall be 
able to raise as much as will keep arrest and prison 
at a distance ; or if they do take our furniture 
out of the house, all excei>t Margaret’s bed, who 
cares ? we will sleep on the floor ; and there 
are potatoes in the field, and clear water in the 
spring, — we need fear nothing, want nothing ; 
blessed be God for all his mercies.” 

Gilbert went into the sick-room, and got the let- 
ter from his wife, wdio was sitting at the head of the 
bed, watching, with a heart blessed beyond all bliss, 
the calm and regular breathings of her child. “ This 
letter,” said he, mildly, “ is not from a hard credi- 
tor : come with me while I read it aloud to our 
children.” The letter was read aloud, and it w'as 
well fitted to diffuse pleasure and satisfaction 
through the d\velling of poverty. It was from an 
executor to the will of a distant relative, who had 
left Gilbert Ainslie £1500. “ The sum,” said 

Gilbert, “ is a large one to folks like us, but not, I 
hope, large enough to turn our heads, or make us 
think ourselves all lords and ladies. It will do 
more, far more, than put me fairly above the world 
at last. I believe, that with it 1 may buy this verj 
farm on wdiich my forefathers have toiled. But 
God, w’hose providence has sent this temporal 
blessing, may he send us wisdom and prudence 
how to use it, and humble and grateful hearts to 
u? all.” 

“ You will be able to send me to school all the 
year round now, father,” said the youngest toy 
“ jind you may leave the flail to your sons, now 


40 


AN HOUn N THE MAH8K. 


father,” said the eldest. “ You may hold fh« 
plough still, for you draw a straighter furrow than 
any of us ; but hard work for young sinews ; and 
you may sit now oftener in your arm-chair by the 
mgle. You will not need to rise now in the dark, 
cold and snowy winte*r mornings, and keep thrash- 
ng corn in the barn for hours by candle-light be- 
fore the late dawning.” 

There was silence, gladness, and sorrow, and 
but little sleep in Moss-side, between the rising 
and setting of the stars, that were now out in thou- 
sands, clear, bright, and sparkling over the un- 
clouded sky. Those who had lain down for an 
hour or two in bed could scarcely be said to have 
slept ; and when about morning little Margaret 
awoke, an altered creature, pale, languid, and un 
able to turn herself on her lowly bed, but with 
meaning in her eyes, memory in her mind, affec- 
tion in her heart, and coolness in all her veins, a 
happy group were watching the first faint smile 
that broke over her features ; and never did one 
who stood there forget that Sabbath morning, on 
which she seemed to look round upon then all with 
a gaze of fair and sweet bewilderment, like one 
half conscious of having been rescued from the 
power of the grave. 


AN HOUR IN THE MANSE. 

In a few weeks the annual Sacrament of the 
Lord’s Supper was to be administered in the parish 
of Deanside ; and the minister, venerable in old 
of authority by the. power of Ids talents and 


AN Houn tN THE MANSE. 




fearning, almost feared for his sanctity, yet willial 
beloved for gentleness and compassion that had 
never been found wanting when required either by 
the misfortunes or errors of any of his flock, had 
delivered, for several successive Sabbaths, to full 
congregations, sermons on the proper preparation 
< f communicants in that awful ordinance. The 
old man was a follower of Calvin ; and many who 
had listened to him with a resolution in their hearts 
to approach the table of the Redeemer, felt so awe- 
stricken and awakened at the conclusion of his 
exhortations, that they gave their souls another 
year to meditate'^on what they had heard, and by 
a pure and humble course of life, to render them- 
selves less unworthy to partake the mysterious and 
holy bread and wine. 

The good old man received in the Manse, for a 
couple of hours every evening, such of his parish 
ioners as came to signify their wish to partake of 
the sacrament; and it was then noted, that though 
he in nowise departed, in his conversation with 
them at such times, from the spirit of those doc- 
trines which he had delivered from the pulpit, yet 
his manner was milder, and more soothing, and 
full of encouragement ; so that many who went 
to him almost with quaking hearts departed in 
tran(juillity and peace, and looked forward to that 
most impressive and solemn act of the Christian 
faith, with calm and glad anticipation. The old 
man thought truly and justly, that few, if any 
would come to the Manse, after having heard him 

the kirk, without due and deep reflection ; and 
tlierefore, though he allowed none to passthrough 
his hands without strict examination, he spoke to 
them all benignly, and with that sort of paternai 
pity, which a religious man, about to leave thii 
life, feels towards all his brethren of mankind, who 


42 


AN HOCn IN THE iMANSE. 


are entering upon, or engaged in its scenes a/ 
agitation, trouule, and danger. 

On one of those evenings, the servant showed 
•nto the minister’s study, a tall, hold looking, dark- 
♦ isaged man, in the prime of life, who, with little of 
the usual courtesy, advanced into the middle of the 
room, and somewhat abruptly declared the sacred 
purpose of his visit. But before he could receive 
a reply, he looked around and before him ; and 
there was something so solemn in the old minis- 
ter’s appearance, as he sat like a spirit, with his 
unclouded eyes fixed upon the intruder, that that 
person’s countenance fell, and his heart u’^as in- 
voluntarily knocking against his side. An old 
large Bible, the same that he read from in the pul- 
pit was lying open before him. One glimmering 
candle showed his beautiful and silvery locks fall- 
ing over his temples, as his head half stooped over 
the sacred page ; a dead silence was in the room, 
dedicated to meditation and prayer ; the old man, 
it was known, had for some tijue felt himself to be 
dying, and had spoken of the sacrament of this 
summer as the last he could ever hope to admin- 
ister ; so that, altogether, in the silence, the 
dimness, the sanctity, the unworldliness of the 
lime, the place, and the being before him, the visi- 
tor stood like one abashed and ajipalled ; and 
Dowing more reverently, or, at least, respectfully, 
lie said, with a hurried and (juivering voice, “ Sir, 
1 come for your sanction, to be admitted to the 
table of the Lord.” 

The minister motioned to him wdth his hand to 
sit down, and it Avas a relief to the trembling man 
to do so, for he was in the presence of one who ho 
felt, saw into his heart. A sudden change, from 
hardihood to terror, took ulace Avilhin his dark 
uanirc ; he Avished himself out of the insupport* 


AN HOUR IN THE MANSE. 


43 


able sauctity of that breathless rooni ; and a re- 
morse, that had hitherto slept, or been drowned 
within him, now clutched his heart-strings, as if 
with an alternate grasp of frost and fire, and made 
his knees knock against each other where he sat, 
and his face pale as ashes. 

“ Norman Adams, saidst thou, that tjiou wilt 
take into that hand, and put into those lips, the 
symbol of the blood that was shed for sinners, and 
of the body that bowed on the cross, and then gave 
up the ghost ? If so, let us speak together, even as 
if thou wert communing with thine own heart. 
Never, again, may I join in that sacrament, for 
the hour of my departure is at hand. Say, wilt 
tliou eat and drink death to thine immortal souH” 

The terrified man found strength to rise from 
his seat, and staggering towards the door, said, 
“ Pardon, forgive me, 1 am not worthy.” “ It is 
not I who can pardon, Norman. That power lies 
not with man ; l)ut sit down — ^you are deadly pale 
— and though, I fear, an ill-living and a dissolute 
man, greater sinners have repented, and been 
saved. Approach not now the table of the Lord, 
but confess all your sins before him in the silence 
of your own house, and upon your naked knees 
on the stone floor every morning and every night; 
and if this you do faithfully, humbly, and with a 
contrite heart, come to me again when the sacra- 
ment is over, and I will speak words of comfort to 
you, if, then, I am able to speak, if, Norman, it 
should be on my death-bed. This will I do for tiie 
sake of thy soul, and for the sake of thy father, 
Norman, whom my soul loved, and who was a 
support to me in my ministry for many long years, 
even for two score and ten, for we were at school 
together; and had your father been living now, ho 
would, like myself, have this very day finished hit 


44 


AS HOUR IN THE MANSE. 


eighty-fifth year. 1 send you not from me in an* 
ger, but in pity and love. Go, my son, and this 
very night begin your repentance, for if tliat face 
speak the truth, your heart must be sorely charg- 
ed.” 

Just as the old man ceased speaking, and before 
the humble, or at least affrighted culprit had risen 
to go, another visitor of a very different kind was 
shown into the room. A young, beautiful girl, al- 
most shrouded in her cloak, with a sweet jiale face, 
on which sadness seemed in vain to strive with 
the natural expression of the happiness of youth. 

“ Mary Simpson,” said the kind old man, as 
she stood wiih a timid curtesy near the door ; 
“ Mary Sim[>*-on, approach, and receive from my 
hands the tuKen for which thou comest. Well 
dost thou know the history of thy Saviour’s life, 
and rejoicest in the life and immortality brought to 
light, by the gospel. Young and guileless, Mary, 
art thou, and dim as my memory now is of many 
things, yet do I well remember the evening, when 
first beside my knee, thou heardst read how the 
Divine Infant was laid in a manger — how the wise 
men from the east came to the place of his nativi- 
ty — and how the angels were lieard singing in the 
fields of Bethlehem all the night long.” 

Alas ! every word that had thus been uttered 
sent a pang into the poor creature’s heart, and 
without lifting her eyes from the floor, and in a 
voice more faint and hollow than belonged to one 
so young, she said, “ Oh ! Sir, I come net as an 
intending communicant ; yet the Lord iny God 
knows that I am rather miserable than guilty, and 
he will not sufler my soul to perish, though a baby 
is now within me, the child of guilt, and sin, and 
horror. This, my shame, come I to tell you ; but 
f jr the father of my lube unborn, cruel though n* 


AN HOUR IN THE MANSE. 4A 

has been to me, oh! cruel, cruel, indeed — yetshaE 
his name go down with me in silence to the grave 
I must not, must not breathe his name in mortal 
cars ; but I have looked round me in the wide 
moor, and when nothing that could understand 
was by, nothing living but birds, and bees, and the 
sheep I was herding, often whispered his name in 
my prayers, and beseeched God and Jesus to for- 
give him all his sins.” 

At these words, of which the passionate utter- 
ance seemed to relieve her heart, and before the 
pitying and bewildered old man could reply, Mary 
Simpson raised her eyes from the floor, and fear 
ing to meet the face of the minister, wliich had 
heretofore never shone upon her but with smiles, 
and of Avhich the expected frown was to her alto- 
gether insupportable, she turned them wildly round 
tlie room, as if for a dark resting place, and behelo 
Norman Adams rooted to his seat, leaning towards 
her with his white ghastly countenance, and his 
eyes starting from their sockets, seemingly in 
wrath, agony, fear, and remorse. Tliat terrible 
face struck poor Mary to the heart, and she sunk 
against the wall, and slipped down shuddeiing 
upon a chair. 

“ Norman Adams, I am old and weak, but do 
you put your arm around that poor lost creature, 
and keep her from falling down on the hard floor. 
I hear it is a stormy night, and slie has walked 
some miles hither ; no wonder she is overcome. 
5fou have heard her confession. But it was not 
meant for your ear ; so, till I see you again, say 
nothing of what you have now heard.” 

“ O Sir i a cup of water, for my blood is either 
caving my heart altogether, or it is drowning it, 
if our voice. Sir, is going far, far away from me, 
and 1 am sinking down. Oh! hold me, — hold ma 


46 


AN HOUR IN THE MANSE. 


up ! It is a pit into which I am falling ! — Suit 
not Norman Adams? — Where is he now?” 

The poor maiden did not fall olf the chair, al 
though Norman Adams supported her not ; but 
her head lay back against the wall, and a sigh, long 
and dismal, burst from her bosom that deeply af- 
fected the old man’s heart, but struck that of the 
speechless and motionless sinner, like the first toll 
of the prison bell that >varns the felon to leave 
his cell and come forth to execution. 

The minister fixed a stern eye upon Norman, 
for, from the poor girl’s unconscious words, it was 
plain that he was the guilty wretch who had wrought 
all this misery. “You knew, did you not, that 
she had neither father nor mother, sister nor 
brother, scarcely one relation on earth to care for 
or Watch over her ; and yet you have used her so ? 
If her beauty was a temptation unto you, did not 
the sweet child’s innocence touch your hard and 
selfish heart Avith pity ; or her guilt and grief must 
surely noAv Avring it Avith remorse. Look on her 
— Avhite — cold — breathless — still as a corpse ; and 
yet, thou bold bad man, tiny footsteps Avould have 
approached the table of thy Lord.” 

The child now partly aAvoke from her SAvoon, 
and her dim opemng eyes met those of Norman 
Adams. She shut them Avith a shudder, and said, 
sickly, and with a quivering voice, “ O spare, spare 
me, Norman : are we again in that dark fearful 
wood? Tremble not for your life on earth, Nor- 
man, for never, never Avill I tell to mortal ears that 
terrible secret ; but spare me, spare me, else our 
Saviour, Avith all his mercy, Avill never pardon 
your unrelenting soul. These are cruel looking 
eves; you Avill not surely murder poor Mary 
pson, unhappy as she is, and must for ever be 
• yet life is SAveet ! She beseeches you on hei 


AN HOUR IN THE MANSE. 


47 


Knees to spare her life !” — and in the intense fear 
of phantasy, the poor creature struggled off the 
chair, and fell down indeed in a heap at his feet. 

“ Canst thou indeed be the son of old Norman 
Adams, the industrious, the temperate, the mild, 
and the pious ; who so often sat in this very room 
which your presence has now polluted, and spake 
with me on the mysteries of life and of death 1 
Foul ravisher, what stayed thy hand from the mur- 
der of that child, when there were none near to 
hear her shrieks in the dark solitude of the great 
pine-wood "I” 

Norman Adams smote his heart, and fell down 
too on his knees beside the poor ruined orphan. 
He put his arm around her, and, raising her from 
the floor, said, “ No, no, my sin is great, too great 
for heaven’s forgiveness ; but, O Sir, say not — say 
not that I would have murdered her ; for, savage 
as my crime was, yet may God judge me less ter- 
rible than if I had taken her life.” 

In a little while they were both seated with some 
composure, and silence was in the room. No one 
spoke, and the old gray-haired man sat with eyes 
fixed without reading, on the open Bible. At last 
he broke silence with these words out of Isaiah, 
that seemed to have forced themselves on his heed- 
less eyes. — “ Though your sins be as scarlet, they 
shall be as white as snow ; though they be red 
ike crimson, they shall be as wool.” 

Mary Simpson wept aloud at these words; and 
!>cemed to forget her own wrongs and grief in 
jommisseration of the agonies of remorse and fear 
-Jial were now plainly preying ^n the soul of the 
guilty man. “ I forgive you, Norman, and will 
soon be out of the way, no longer to anger you 
with the sight of me;” — then, fixing her streaming 
eyes on the minister, she besought him not to be 


|6 AN HOUR IN THE MANSE 

the means of bringing him to punishment, and n 
shamefu . deatli, for that he might repent, and live 
to be a good man and respected in the parisli ; but 
that slie was a poor orphan, for whom few cared, 
ind wlio, when dead, would have but a small fu- 
, neral. 

“I will deliver myself up into the hands of jus- 
tice,” said the offender, “ for I do not deserve to 
live. Mine was an inhuman crime, and let a vio- 
lent and shameful death be my doom.” 

The orphan girl now stood up as if her strength 
had been restored, and stretching out her hands 
passionately, with a flow of most affecting and 
beautiful language, inspired by a meek, single, 
and sinless heart, that could not bear the thought 
of utter degradation and wretchedness befalling 
any one of the rational children of God, implored 
and beseeched the old man to comfort the sinner 
before them, and promise that the dark transaction 
of guilt should never leave the concealment of 
their cwn three hearts. “ Did he not save the 
lives of two brothers once who were drowning in 
that black mossy loch, when their own kindred, 
at work among the hay, feared the deep, sullen 
water, and all stood aloof shuddering and shriek- 
ing, till Norman Adams leapt in to their rescue, 
and drew them by the dripping hair to the shore, 
and then lay down beside them on the heather as 
like to death as themselves 1 I myself saw it 
done ; — I myself heard their mother call down the 
blessing of God on Norman’s head, and then all 
the haymakers knelt down and prayed. When 
you, on the Sabbath, returned thanks to God for 
that they were saved, oh ! kind Sir, did you not 
name, in the full kirk, him who, under Providence, 
did deliver them from death, and who, you said, 
l>Ad thus showe<l himself to be a Christian indeed ^ 


AN HOUR IN THE MANSE. 


49 


his sin against me be forgotten for the sake of 
those two drowning boys, and their mother, who 
blesses his name unto this day.” 

From a few questions solemnly asked, and so^ 
temnly answered, the minister found that Norman 
Adams had been won by the beauty and loveliness 
of this poor orphan shepherdess, as he had often 
spoken to her when sitting on the hill-side with her 
flock, but that pride had prevented him from ever 
thinking of her in marriage. It appeared that he 
bad also been falsely informed, by a youth whom 
Mary disliked for his brutal and gross manners, 
that she was not the innocent girl that her seeming 
simplicity denoted. On returning from a festive 
meeting, where this abject person had made many 
mean insinuations against her virtue, Norman 
Adams met her returning to her master’s house, 
in the dusk of the evening, on the footpath lead- 
ing through a lonely wood ; and though his crime 
was of the deepest die, it seemed to the minis- 
ter of the religion of mercy, that, by repentance, 
and belief in the atonement that had once been 
made for sinners, he, too, might perhaps hope for 
forgiveness at the throne of God. 

“ I warned you, miserable man, of the fatal na 
ture of sin, when first it brought a trouble ovei 
your countenance, and broke in upon the peaceful 
integrity of your life. Was not the silence of the 
night often terrible to you, when you were alone 
in the moors, and the whisper of your own con- 
'science told you that every wicked thought was 
sacrilege to your father’s dust ? Step by stej), and 
almost imperceptibly, perhaps, did you atlvance 
upon the road that leadeth to destruction ; but look 
baek now, and what a long, dark journey, have 
you taken, standing, as you are, on the brink of 
ivcrlasting death. Once you were kind, gentle, 


50 


AN HOUR IN THE MANSE. 


generous, manly, and free ; but you trusted to iho 
deceitfulness of your own heart, — you estranged 
yourself from the house of the God of your fa- 
thers ; and what has your nature done for you 
at last, but sunk you into a wretch, savage, selfish, 
cruel, cowai'dly, and, in good truth, a slave 1 A 
felon are you, and forfeited to the hangman’s 
hands. Look on that poor innocent child, and 
think what is man without God. What would you 
give now, if the last three years of your reckless 
life had been passed in a dungeon dug deep into 
the earth, with hunger and thirst gnawing at your 
heart, and bent down under a cart-load of chains 1 
Yet look not so ghastly, for I condemn you not 
utterly ; nor, though I know your guilt, can I 
know what good may yet be left uncOrrupted and 
unextinguished in your soul. Kneel not to me, 
Norman ; fasten not so your eyes upon me ; lift 
them upwards, and then turn them in upon you* 
own heart, for the dreadful reckoning is betweei. 
it and God.” 

Mary Simpson had now recovered all hel 
strength, and she knelt down by the side of the 
groaner. Deep was the pity she now felt for him 
who to her had shown no pity ; she did not refuse 
to lay her light arm tenderly upon his neck. — 
Often had she prayed to God to save his soul, even 
among her rueful sobs of shame in the solitary 
glens ; and now that she beheld his sin punished 
with a remorse more than he could bear, the or- 
phan would have willingly died to avert from his 
prostrate head the wrath of the Almighty. 

The old man wept at the sight cf so much in- 
nocence, and so much guilt, kneeling together be- 
fore God, in strange union and fellowship of a 
common being. AVlth his own fatherly arms he 
lifted up the orphan from her knees, and said— 


AN HOUR IN THE MANSE. 


51 


‘Mary Simpson — my sweet and innocent Mary 
Simpson ; for innocent thou art, — the eldei's will 
give thee a token, that will, on Sabbath day, admit 
thee (not for the first time, though so young) to 
the communion table. Fear not to approach it: 
look at me, and on my face, when I bless the ele- 
ments, and be thou strong in the strength of the 
Lord. Norman Adams, return to your home. Go 
into the chamber where your father died. Let your 
knees wear out the part of the floor on which he 
kneeled. It is somewhat worn already. You 
have seen the mark of your father’s knees. Who 
knows but that pardon and peace may return from 
heaven even upon such a sinner as thou 1 On 
none such as thou have mine eyes ever looked, in 
knowledge, among all those who have lived and 
died under my care, for three generations : but great 
is the unknown guilt that may be hidden even bi 
the church-yard of a small quiet parish like this ! 
Dost thou feel as if God-forsaken 1 — or, oh ! say 
it unto me, canst thou, my poor son, dare to hope 
for repentance 1” 

The pitiful tone of the old man’s trembling 
voice, and the motion of his shaking and wither- 
ed hands, as he lifted them up almost in an atti- 
tude of benediction, completed the prostration of 
that sinner’s spirit. All his better nature, which 
had too long been oppressed under scorn of holy 
ordinances, and the coldness of infidelity, and the 
selfishness of lawless desires that insensibly hard- 
en the heart they do not dissolve, now struggled to 
rise up and respect its rights. “ When I remem- 
ber what I once was, I can hope ; when I think 
what I now am, 1 only, only fear.” 

A storm of rain and wind had cone on, and 
Mary Simpson slept in the manse that night. On 
the ensuing Sabbath she partook of the Sacra- 


63 


THE HEAD-STONE. 


ment. A woful illness fell upon Norman Adams; 
and then for a lonji time no one saw him or knevr 
where he had gone. It was said that he was in a 
distant city, and that he was a miserable creature, 
that never again could look upon the sun. But 
it was otherwise ordered. He returned to his 
farm, greatly changed in the face and person, but 
even yet more changed in spirit. 

The old minister had more days allotted to him 
than he had thought, and was not taken away for 
some summers. Before he died he had reason to 
know that Norman Adams had repented in tears 
of blood — in thoughts of faith, and in deeds ot 
charity ; and he did not fear to admit him, too, in 
good time, to the holy ordinance, along with Mary 
Simpson, then his wife, and the mother of his 
children. 


THE HEAD-STONE. 

The coffin was let down to the bottom of the 
grave, the planks were removed from the heaped- 
up brink, the first rattling clods had struck their 
knell, the quick shovelling was over, and the long, 
broad, skilfully cut pieces of turf were aptly join- 
ed together, and trimly laid by the beating spade, 
so that the newest mound in the church-yard was 
scarcely distinguishable from those that were 
grown over by the undisturbed grass and daisies 
of a luxuriant spring. The burial was soon over, 
and the party, with one consenting motion, hav- 
ing uncovered their heads in decent reverence of 
the place and occasion, were beginning to sepa- 


THE HEAD-STONE. 


fiS 

rate, and about to leave the church-yard. Here 
some acquaintances, from distant parts of the par 
ish, who had not had opportunity of addressing 
each other in the house that had belonged to the 
deceased, nor in the course of the few hundred 
yards that the little procession had to move ove. 
from his bed to his grave, were shaking hands 
quietly but cheerfully, and inquiring after the 
welfare of each other’s families. There, a small 
knot of neighbours were speaking, without exag- 
geration, of the respectable character which the 
deceased had borne, and mentioning to one an- 
other little incidents of his life, some of them so 
remote as to be known only to the gray -headed 
persons of the group. While a few yards farther 
removed from the spot, were standing together 
parties who discussed ordinary concerns, altoge- 
ther unconnected with the funeral ; such as the 
state of the markets, the promise of the season, 
or change of tenants ; but still with a sobriety of 
manner and voice, that was insensibly produced 
by the influence of the simple ceremony now 
closed, by the quiet graves around, and the sha- 
dow of the spire and gray walls of the house of 
God. 

Two men yet stood together at the head of the 
grave, with countenances of sincere but unim- 
passioned grief. They were brothers — the only 
sons of him who had been buried : and there was 
something in their situation that naturally kept 
the eyes of many directed upon them for a long 
time, and more intently than would have been 
the case, had there been nothing more observable 
about them than the common symptoms of a com- 
mon sorrow. But these two brothers, who were 
now standing at the head of their father’s grave, 
had for some years bt.-en totally estranged from 


54 


THE HEAD-STONE. 


each other, and the only words that had passed 
betw’^een them, during all that time, had been ut- 
teied within a few days past, during the necessary 
preparations for the old man’s funeral. 

No deep and deadly quarrel was between these 
brothers, and neither of them could distinctly tell 
the cause of this unnatural estrangement. Per- 
haps dim jealousies of their father’s favour ; — 
selfish thoughts that will sometimes force them- 
selves into poor men’s hearts, respecting temporal 
expectations; — unaccommodating manners on 
both sides ; — taunting words, that mean little 
when uttered, but which rankle and fester in re- 
membrance ; — imagined opposition of interests, 
that, duly considered, would have been found one 
and the same ; — these, and many other causes, 
slight when single, but strong when rising up to- 
gether in one baneful band, had gradually but fa- 
tally infected their hearts, till at last they who in 
youth had been seldopi separate, and truly attach- 
ed, now met at market, and, miserable to say, at 
church, wdth dark and averted faces, like difterent 
clansmen during a feud. 

Surely if any thing could have softened their 
hearts towards each other, it must have been to 
stand silently, side by side, while the earth, stones, 
'ind clods, were falling down upon their father’s 
coifin. And doubtless their hearts were so soften- 
ed. But pride, though it cannot prevent the holy 
affections of nature from being felt, may prevent 
them from being shown ; and these two brothers 
stood there together, determined not to let each 
other know the mutual tenderness that, in spite of 
them, W'as gushing up in their hearts, and teaching 
tlicm the unconfessed folly and wickedness of their 
causeless qu*arrel. 

A head-stone had been prepared, ai d a persor 


THE HEAD-STONE. 


GS 


came forward to plant it. The elder brothei di- 
rected him how to ])Iace it, — a plain stone, with a 
sand-glass, skull, and cross-bones, chiselled, not 
rudely, and a few words inscribed. The younger 
brother regarded the operation with a troubled 
eye, and said, loudly enough to be heard by seve- 
ral of the by-standers, “ William, this was not kind 
in you; — you should have told me of this. I 
loved my father as well as you could love him. — 
You were the elder, and, it may be, the favourite 
son ; but I had a right in nature to have joined 
you in ordering this head-stone, had I not 1” 

During these words the stone was sinking into 
the earth, and many persons who were on their 
way from the grave, returned. For a while the 
elder brother said nothing, for he had a conscious- 
ness in his heart that he ought to have consulted 
his father’s son in designing this last becoming 
mark of affection and respect to his memory ; so 
the stone was planted in silence, and now stood 
erect, decently and simply, among the other un- 
ostentatious memorials of the humble dead. 

The inscription merely gave the name and age 
of the deceased, and told that the stone had been 
erected “ by his affectionate sons.” The sight of 
these words seemed to soften the displeasure of 
the angry man, and he said, somewhat more mild- 
ly, “ Yes, we were his .aftectionate sons, and since 
my name is on the stone, I am satisfied, brother. 
We have not drawn together kindly of late years, 
and perhaps never may ; but I acknowledge and 
respect your worth; and here, before our own 
friends, and before the friends of our father, with 
my foot above his head, I express my willingness 
to be on better and other terms with you, and if we 
cannot command love in our hearts, let ns at 
east, brother, bar out all unkindness.” 


66 


THE HEAD STONE. 


The minister, who had attended tlie funeral, and 
had something entrusted to him to say publicly 
before he left the church-yard, now came forward, 
and asked the elder brother why he spake not re- 
garding this matter. He saw that there was some- 
thing of a cold and sullen pride rising up in his 
heart, for not easily may any man hope to dismiss 
from the chamber of his heart even the vilest guest, 
if once cherished there. With a solemn and al- 
most severe air, he looked upon the relenting man, 
and then, changing his countenance into serenity, 
said gently — 

Behold how good a thing it is, 

And how becoming well, 

Together such as brethren are 
In unity to dwell. 

The time, the place, and this beautiful expres- 
sion of a natural sentiment, cptite overcame a 
heart, in which many kind, if not warm, affections 
dwelt ; and the man thus appealed to bowed down 
his head and wept, “ Give me your hand, bro- 
ther and it was given, while a murmur of satis- 
faction arose from all present, and all hearts felt 
kindlier and more humanely towards -each other. 

As the brothers stood fervently, but composedly, 
grasping each other’s hands, in the little hollow 
that lay between the grave of their mother, long 
since dead and of their father, whose shroud was 
haply not yet still from the fall of dust to dust, the. 
minister stood beside them with a pleasant coun 
tenance, and said — “ I must fulfil the promise I 
made to your father on his death-bed. I must 
read to you a few words which his hand wrote at 
an hour when his tongue denied its office. I 
must not say that you did your duty to your old 
father ; for did he not often beseech you, apart 


THE HEAD-STONE. 


57 


from one another, to be reconciled, for your own 
sakes as Christians, for his sake, and for tlie sake 
of the mother who bare you, and Stephen, who 
died that you might be born? When the palsy 
struck him for the last time, you were both absent, 
—nor was it your fault that you were not beside 
tlie old man when he died. As long as sense con* 
linued with him here, did he think of you two, and 
of you two alone. Tears were in his eyes ; I 
saw them there ; and on his cheek too, when no 
breath came from his lips. But of this no more. 
He died Math this paper in his hand ; and he made 
me know that I was to read it to you over his 
grave. I now obey him. 

“My sons — if you will let my bones lie quiet 
in the grave, near the dust of your mother, depart 
not from my burial, till, in the name of God and 
Christ, you promise to love one another as you 
used to do. Dear boys, receive my blessing.” 

Some turned their heads away to hide the tears 
that needed not to be hidden ; — and, when the 
brothers had released each other from a long and 
sobbing embrace, many went up to them, and, in 
a single word or two, expressed their joy at this 
perfect reconcilement. The brothers themselves 
walked away from the church-yard, arm in arm, 
with the minister to the Manse. On the following 
Sabbath they were seen sitting with their families 
in the same pew, and it was observed that they 
read together off the same Bible when the minis- 
ter gave out the text ; and that they sang together, 
taking hold of the same psalm-book. The same 
psalm was sung, (given out at their own request,) 
of which one verse had been repeated at their fa 
ther’s grave ; a larger sum than usual was on that 
Sabbath found in the plate for the poor, for Lovt 
and Charity are sisters. And ever after, both dur 


58 


SUNSET AND SUNRISE. 


ing the peace and the troubles of tliis life, tin 
hearts of the brothers were as one, and in nothii g 
were they divided. 


SUNSET AND SUNRISE. 

“This is the evening on which, a few days ago 
we agreed to walk to the bower at the waterfall 
and look at the perfection of a Scottish sunset. 
Every thing on earth and heaven seems at this 
hour as beautiful as our souls could desire. Come 
then, my sweet Anna, come along, for, by the 
time we have reached the bower, with your gentle 
steps, the great bright orb will be nearly resting 
its rim on what you call the Ruby Mountain : — 
come along, and we can return before the dew 
has softened a single ringlet on your fair forehead.” 
With these words, the ha))py husband locked 
kindly within his own the arm of his young Eng- 
lish wife ; and even in the solitude of his unfre- 
quented groves, M'here no eye but his own now be- 
held her, looked with pride on the gracefulness 
and beauty, that seemed so congenial with the 
singleness and simplicity of her soul. 

They reached the bower just as the western hea- 
ven was in all its glory. To them while they stood 
together gazing on that glow of fire that burns 
without consuming, and in whose mighty furnace 
the clouds and the mountain-tops are but as em- 
bers, there seemed to exist no sky but that region 
of it in which their spirits were entranced. Their 
eyes saw it — tlii ir souls felt it ; but what their eyes 
?uw, or their souls felt, they knew not in the niys- 


SUNSET AND SUNRISE. 


59 


lery of that magnificence. The vast black bars— 
he piled-up masses of burnished gold — the beds 
of softest saffron and richest purple, lying sur- 
rounded with continually fluctuating dies of crim- 
son, till the very sun himself was for moments un- 
fieeded in the gorgeousness his light had created— 
the show of storm but the feeling of calm over 
all that tumultuous yet settled world of clouds, 
that had come floating silently and majestically 
together, and yet, in one little hour, was to be no 
more : what might not beings endowed with a sense 
of beauty, and greatness, and love, and fear, and 
terror, and eternity, feel when drawing their breath 
together, and turning their steadfast eyes on each 
other’s faces, in such a scene as this 1 

But from these high and bewildering imagina- 
tions, their souls returned insensibly to the real 
world in which their life lay ; and still feeling the 
presence of that splendid sunset, although now 
they looked not towards it, they let their eyes 
glide, in mere human happiness, over the surface 
of the inhabited earth. The green fields that, in 
all varieties of form, lay stretching out before 
them ; the hedge-roAvs of hawthorn and sw'eet- 
brier ; the humble coppices ; the stately groves ; 
and, in the distance, the dark pine forest loading 
the mountain side, were all their own ; and so too 
were a hundred cottages, on height or hollow, 
shelterless or buried in shelter, and all alike dear 
to their humble inmates, on account of their cheer- 
fulness or their repose. God had given to them 
this bright and beautiful portion of the earth, and 
he had given them along with it hearts and souls 
to feel and understand in what lay the worth of 
the gift, and to enjoy it with a deep and thoughtful 
gratitu(le. 

“ Ail hearts bless you, Anna ; and do you know 


00 


SUNSET AND SUNRISE. 


lhat the shepherd poet, wnom we once visited ii"! 
his shealing, has composed a Gaexic song on our 
marriage, and it is now sung by many a pretty 
Highland girl, both in cottage and on hill-side? 
They wondered, it is said, why I should have 
brought them an English lady ; but that was be- 
fore they saw your face, or heard how sweet may 
be an English voice, even to a Highland ear. They 
love you, Anna ; they would die for you, Anna ; 
for they have seen you with your sweet body in 
silk and satin, with a jewel on your forehead, and 
pearls in your hair, moving to music in your hus- 
band’s hereditary hall ; and they have seen you 
too, in russet garb, and ringlets unadorned, in 
their own smoky cottages, blithe and free as some 
native shepherdess of the hills. To the joyful and 
the sorrowful art thou alike dear; and all my 
tenantry are rejoiced when you appear, whether 
on your palfrey on the heather, or walking through 
the hay or harvest-field, or sitting by the bed of 
sickness ; or welcoming, with a gentle stateliness, 
the old withered mountaineer, to his chieftain’s 
gate.” 

The tears fell from the lady’s eyes at these kind, 
loving, and joyful words : and, with a sob, she 
leaned her cheek on her husband’s bosom. “ Oh ! 
why, why should I be sad in the midst of the un- 
deserved goodness of God ? Since the fartherest 
back time I recollect in the darkness of infancy, I 
have been perfectly happy. I have never lost any 
dear friend, as so many others have done. My 
father and mother live, and love me well; bless- 
ings be upon them now, and forever! You love 
me, and that so tenderly, that at times rtiy heart 
is like to break. But, my husband, forgive me — 
pity me — but upbraid me not, w hen I tell you, tha? 
mv soul, of late, has often fainted within me, as 


SJ-VSET AND SUNRISE. 


61 


no>' it do(!S ; for, oh! husband — husband! the 
fear of death is upon me ; and as the sun saiiA 
beliind the mountain, I thouglit that moment of a 
arge burial place, and the vault in which I am to 
he interred.” 

These words gave a shock to her husband’s 
lu;art, and for a few moments he knew not how 
to cheer and comfort her. Almost before he could 
speak, and while he was silently kissing her fore- 
head, his young wife, somewhat more composed- 
ly, said — “ I strive against it — I close my eyes to 
contain, to crush the tears that I feel gushing up 
from my stricken heart ; hut they force their way 
through, and ray face is often ruefully drenched 
in solitude. Well may I weep to leave this world 
• — thee- — my parents — the rooms in which, for a 
year of perfect bliss, 1 have walked, sat, or slept 
m thy bosom — all these beautiful woods, and 
plains, and hills, which I have begun to feel every 
day more and more as belonging unto me, because 
I am thy wife. But, husband ! beyond, far, fur 
beyond them all, except him of whose blood it is, 
do I weep to leave our baby that is now unborn. 
May it live to comfort you — to gladden your eyes 
when I am gone — yea, to bring tears sometimes 
into them, when its face or form may chance to 
remember you of the mother who bore it, and 
died that it might see the day.” 

The lady rose up with these words from her 
husband’s bosom ; and, as a sweet balmy whis- 
pering breath of wind came from the broom on 
the river’s bank, and fanned her cheeks, she seem- 
ed to revive from that desponding dream ; and 
with a faint smile, looked all around the sylvan 
bower. The cheerful hum of the bees, that seem- 
ed to be hastening their work among the honey- 
Howers before the fall of dark, — the noise of th( 


62 


SI N'sliT AND SUNRiSE. 


river that had been unheard wliile tlie sun was set* 
ting, — the lowing of the kine going leisurely home- 
wards before their infant drivers, — and the loud 
lofty song of the blackbird in his grove, — these, 
and a thousand other mingling influences of na- 
ture, touched her heart with joy, — and her eyes 
became altogether free from tears. 

Her husband, who had been deeply affected by 
words so new to him from her lips, seized these 
moments of returning peace to divert her thoughts 
entirely from such causeless terrors. “ To this 
bower I brought you to show you 'what a Scottish 
landscape was, the day after our marriage, — and 
from that hour to this, every look, smile, word, 
and deed of thine has been after mine oivn heart, 
except these foolish tears. But the dew will soon 
be on the grass, — so come, my beloved, — nay, 1 
will not stir unless you smile. There, Anna! you 
are your beautiful self again !” And they return- 
ed cheerful and laughing to the hall ; the lady’s 
face being again as bright as if a tear had nevei 
dimmed its beauty. The glory of the sunset was 
almost forgotten in the sw eet, fair, pensive silence of 
the twilight, now fast glimmering on to one of those 
clear summer nights which divide, for a few hours, 
one day from another, with their transitory pomp 
of stars. 

Before midnight, all who slept awoke. It was 
hoped that an heir w^as about to be born to that 
ancient house ; and there is something in the dim 
and solemn reverence which invests an unbroken 
line of ancestry, that blends easily w’ith tlose deeper 
and more awful feelings with which the birth of a 
human creature, in all circumstances, is naturally 
regarded. Tenderly beloved by all as this young 
and beautiful lady w’as, who coming a stranger 
^mong them, and as they felt, from another la no 


s ;nset and sunrise. 


63 


had inspired them insensibly with a sort of pity 
mingling with their pride in her loveliness and vir* 
tue, it may well be thought that now the house 
was agitated, and that its agitation was soon spread 
from cottage to cottage to a great distance round. 
Many a prayer, therefore was said for her ; and 
God was beseeched soon tc make her, in his mercy, 
a joyful mother. . No fears, it was said, were en- 
tertained for the lad) ’s life ; but after some hours 
of intolerable anguish of suspense, her husband, 
telling an old servant whither he had gone, walked 
out into the open air, and, in a few minutes, sat 
down on a tomb-stone, without knowing that he 
liad entered the little church-yard, which, with the 
parish church, was within a few fields and groves 
of the house. He looked around him ; and no- 
thing but graves — graves — graves. “ This stone 
was erected, by her husband, in memory of Agnes 
Ilford, an English woman, who died in child-bed, 
aged nineteen.” This inscription was every let- 
ter of it distinctly legible in the moonlight ; and 
he held his eyes fixed upon it — reading it over and 
over with a shudder ; and then rising up, and hur- 
rying out of the church-yard, he looked back from 
the gate, and thought he saw a female figure all 
in wliite, with an infant in her arms, gliding noise- 
lessly over the graves and tombstones. But he 
looked more steadfastly — and it was nothing. He 
knew it was nothing ; but he was terrified ; and 
turned his face away from the church-yard. The 
old servant advanced towards him ; and he feared 
to look him in the face, lest he should know that 
iiis wife was a corpse. 

“ Life or death 1” at length he found power to 
utter. “ My honoured lady lives, but her son 
breathed only a few gasps — no heir, oo heir. ] 


64 


SUNSET AND SUNRISE. 


was sent to tell you to come quickly to my /uJy’* 
chamber.” 

In a moment the old man was alone, for, re- 
covering from the tory)idity of fear, his master had 
flown off like an arrow, and now with soft foot- 
steps was stealing along the corridor towards the 
door of his wife’s apartment. But as he stood 
within a few steps of it, composing his countenance 
and strengthening his heart, to behold his beloved 
Anna, lying exhausted, and too probably ill, ill 
indeed, — his own mother, like a shadow, came 
out of the room, and not knowing that she was 
seen, clasped her hands together upon her breast, 
and, lifting up her eyes with an expression of de- 
spair, exclaimed, as in a petition to God, “ Oh ! 
my poor son ! — my poor son ! what will become 
of him !” She looked forward, and there was her 
son before her, with a flxce like ashes, tottering 
and speechless. She embraced and supported 
him — the old and feeble supported the young and 
the strong. “ I am blind, and must feel my way; 
but help me to the bed-side that I may sit down 
and kiss my dead wife.* I ought to have been 
there surely, when she died.” 

The lady was dying, but not dead. It was 
thought that she was insensible ; but when her 
husband said, “ Anna — Anna !” she fixed her 
hitherto unnoticing eyes upon his face, and moved 
her lips as if speaking, but no words were heard. 
He stooped down and kissed her forehead, and 
then there was a smile over all her face, and one 
word, “ Farewell !” At that faint and loving 
voice he touched her lips with nis, and he must 
then have felt her parting breath ; for when he 
again looked on her face, the smile upon it wag 
more deep, placid, steadfast, than any living smiley 


■UNSET AND SUNIJSE 


65 


and a mortal silence was on her bosom that was 
to move no more. 

They sat together, he and his mother, looking 
on the young, fair, and beautiful dead. Some- 
times he was distracted, and paced the room rav- 
ing, and with a black and gloomy aspect. Then 
he sat down perfectly composed, and ]>ooking alter- 
nately on the countenance of his young wife, 
bright, blooming, and smiling in death ; and on 
that of his old mother, pale, withered, and solemn 
in life. As yet he had no distinct thoughts of him- 
self. Overwhelming pity for one so young, so 
good, so beautiful, and so happy, taken suddenly 
away, possessed his disconsolate soul ; and he 
would have wept with joy to see her restored to 
life, even although he were to live with her no 
more, though she were utterly to forget him ; for 
what would that be to him, so that she were but 
alive ! He felt that he could have borne to be se- 
parated from her by seas, or by a dungeon’s walls ; 
for in the strength of his love he would have been 
happy, knowing that she was a living being be- 
neath heaven’s sunshine. But in a few days is 
she to be buried ! — And then was he forced to 
think upon himself, and his utter desolation, 
changed in a few hours from a too perfect happi- 
ness, into a wretch whose exirstence was an an- 
guish and a curse. 

At last he could not sustain the sweet, sad, beau- 
tiful sight of that which was nuvv lying stretched 
upon his marriage bed ; and he found himself 
passing along the silent passages, with faint and 
distant lamentations meeting his ear, but scarcely 
recognized by his mind, uiitil he felt tlie fresh air, 
and saw the gray dawji of morniiig. Slowly and 
unconsciously he passed on into the woods, and 
walked on and on, without aim or object, through 


oONSr.T AND SUNRISE. 


ne 

the solitude of awakening nature. He heard or 
heeded not the wide-ringing songs of all the hap- 
py birds ; he saw not the wild flowers beneath his 
feet, nor the dew diamonds that glittered on every 
leaf of the motionless trees. The ruins of a lone- 
ly hut on the hill-side were close to him, and he sat 
down in stupefaction, as if he had been an exile in 
some foreign country. He lifted up his eyes, and 
the sun was rising so that all the eastern heaven 
was tinged with the beautifulness of joy. The 
turrets of his own ancestral mansion were visible 
among the dark umbrage of its ancient grove ; 
fair were the lawns and fields that stretched away 
from it towards the orient light, and one bright i 
bend of the river kindled up the dim scenery 
through which it rolled. His own family estate ! 
was before his eyes, and as the thought rose with- ■ 
in his heart “ all tliat I see is mine,” yet felt he i 
that the poorest beggar was richer tar than he, and 
that in one night he had lost all that was worth 
possessing. He saw the church tower, and thought 
upon the place of graves. *• There will she be 
buried, — there will she be buried,” he repeated, 
with a low voice, while a groan of mortal misery 
startled the little moss-wren from a crevice in the 
ruin. He rose up, and the thought of suicide en- 
tered into his sick heart. He gazed on the river, 
and murmuring aloud in his hopeless wretched- 
ness, said, “ Why should I not sink into a pool 
and bedrowmed? But, oh! Anna, thou who wert 
80 meek and pure on earth, and who art now 
bright and glorious in heaven, what would thy 
sainted and angelic spirit feel if I were to appear 
thus lost and wicked at the Judgment-seatl” 
Alowvoice reached his ear, and, lookingaround 
he beheld his old, faithful, white-headed servant on 
his kuees, — him who had been his father’s fosten 


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Lights and Shadows. 


Page 66 


SUNSET AND SUNRISE 


67 


orother, ai»l who, in tlie privilege of age and hdelK 
ty and love to all belonging to that house, had fol- 
lowed him unregarded, — had watched him as he 
wrung his hands, and had been praying for him to 
God while he continued sitting in that dismal 
trance upon the mouldering mass of ruins. “ Oh ! 
my young master, pardon me for being here. I 
wished not to overhear your words ; but to me 
you have ever been kind, even as a son to his 
father. Come, then, with the old man, back into 
the hall, and forsake not your mother, who is sore 
afraid.” 

They returned, without speaking, down the 
glens, and through the old woods, and the door 
was shut upon them. Days and nights passed on, 
and then a bell tolled ; and the church-yard, that 
had sounded to many feet, was again silent. The 
woods around the hall were loaded with their sum- 
mer glories ; the river flowed on in its brightness ; 
the smoke rose up to heaven from the quiet cot- 
tages ; and nature continued -the same — bright, 
fragrant, beautiful, and happy. Rut the hall 
stood uninhabited ; the rich furniture now felt the 
dust; and there were none to gaze on the pictures 
that graced the walls. He who had been thus be- 
reaved went across seas to distant countries, from 
which his tenantry, for three springs, expected his 
return ; but their expectations were never realized, 
for he died abroad. His remains were brought 
home to Scotland, according to a request in his 
will, to be laid by those of his wife ; and now 
they rest togetlier, lieside the same simple monu* 
rwpt. 


THE LOVER S LAST VISIT. 




THE LOVER’S LAST VISIT. 

The window of the lonely cottage of Hilltoj; 
was beaming far above the highest birch-wood 
seeming to travellers at a distance in the long va. 
ley below, who knew it lot, to be a star in the sky 
A bright tire was in tht kitchen of that small tene- 
ment ; the floor was washed, swept, and sanded, 
and not a footstep had marked its perfect neatness ; 
a small table was covered, near the ingle, with a 
snoAV-white cloth on which was placed a frugal even - 
ing meal ; and in happy, but pensive mood sat there 
all alone the Woodcutter’s only daughter, a come- 
ly and gentle creature, if not beautiful ; such a one 
as diffuses pleasure around her in the hay-field, 
and serenity over the seat in which she sits atten- 
tively on the Sabbath, listening to the Avord of 
God, or joining Avith melloAv voice in his praise 
and Avorship. On this night she expected a visit 
from her lover, that tliey might fix their marriage 
day, and her parents, satisfied and happy that 
their child Avas about to be Avedded to a respecta- 
ble shepherd, had gone to pay a visit to their near- 
est neighbour in the glen. 

A feeble and hesitating knock Avas at the door, 
not like the glad and joyful touch of a lover’s hand ; 
and cautioasly opening it, Mary Robinson beheld 
a female figure Avrapped up in a cloak, with her 
face concealed in a black bonnet. The stranger, 
whoever she might be, seemed wearied and Avorn 
out, and her feet bore witness to a long day’s travel 
across the marshy mountains. Although she 
could scarcely help considering her an unAvelcomo 
riskor at such an hour, yet Mary had too much 
sweetness of disposition — too much humanity, noj 


THE lover’s last VISIT. C9 

to request her to rtep forward into the hut; for i 
seemed as if the v earied woman had lost her way 
and had come towards the shining window to be 
put right, upon her journey to the low country. 

The stranger took off her bonnet on reaching 
the fire ; and Mary Robinson beheld the face of 
one whom, in youth, she had tenderly loved ; al- 
though for some years past, the distance af which 
they lived from each other had kept them from 
meeting, and only a letter or two, written in their 
simple way, had given them a few notices of each 
other’s existence. And now Mary had opportuni- 
ty, in the first speechless gaze of recognition, to 
mark the altered face of her friend, — and her 
heart was touched with an ignorant compassion. 
“ For mercy’s sake ! sit down Sarah! and tell me 
what evil has befallen you ; for you are as white 
as a ghost. Fear not to confide any thing to my 
bosom ; we have herded sheep together on the 
lonesome braes — we have stripped the bark togeth- 
er in the more lonesome woods; — wc have played, 
laughed, sung, danced together ; — we have talked 
merrily and gayly, but innocently enough surely of 
sweethearts together; and, Sarah, graver thoughts, 
too, have we shared, for, when your poor brother 
died away like a frosted flower, I wept as if I had 
been his sister ; nor can I e ’^er be so happy in this 
world as to forget him. Tell me, my friend, why are 
you here 1 and why is your sweet face so ghastly I” 

The heart of this unexpected visitor died within 
her at these kind and affectionate inquiries. For 
she had come on an errand that was likely to 
dash the joy from that happy countenance. Hei 
heart upbraided her with the meanness of the pur- 
pose for which she had paid this visit ; but that 
was only a passing thought; for was she innocent 
kjid free from sin, to submit, not only to d( sertioii, 


70 


THE lover’s last VISIT. 


but to disgrace, and not trust herself aiiu hci 
wrongs, and her hopes of redress to lier wlioin sh<i 
loved as a sister, and whose generous nature she 
well knew, not even love, the changer of so many 
things, could change utterly ; though, indeed, il 
might render it colder than of old to the anguish 
of a female friend. 

“ Oh ! Mary, I must speak, — yet must my words 
make you grieve, far less for me than for yourself. 
Wretch that I am, — I bring evil tidings into the 
dwelling of my dearest friend ! These ribands — 
they are worn for his sake — they become well, as 
he thinks, the auburn of your bonny hair ; — that 
blue gown is worn to-night because he likes it ; — 
but Mary, will you curse me to my face, when I 
declare before the God that made us, that that man 
is pledged unto me by all that is sacred between 
mortal creatures ; and that I have iiere in my bo- 
som written promises and oaths of love from him 
who, I was this morning told, is in a few days to 
be thy husband. Turn me out of the hut now' if 
you choose, and let me, if you choose, die of hun- 
ger and fatigue, in the woods where we iiave so 
often walked together ; for such death would be 
mercy to me in comparison with your marriage 
with him who is mine for ever, if there be a God 
who heeds the oaths of the creatures he has made.” 

Mary Robinson had led a happy life, but a life 
of quiet thoughts, tramjuil hopes, and meek d»^sires. 
Tenderly and truly did she love the man to whom 
she was now betrothed ; but it was because she had 
thought him gentle, manly, upright, sincere, and 
one that feared God. His character was unim- 
peached, — to her his behaviour had always been 
fond, affectionate, and respectful ; that he was a 
fine-looking man, and coaid show himself among 
the best of the country round at church, and mar 


THE lover's last VISIT. 


71 


Ket, and fair-day, she saw and felt with pleasure 
and with pride. But in the heart of this poor, 
humble, contented, and pious girl, love was not a 
violent passion, but an affection sweet and pro- 
found. She looked forwards to her marriage with 
a joyful sedateness, knowing that she would have 
to toil for her family, if blest with children ; but 
happy in the thought of keeping her husband’s 
house clean — of preparing his frugal meals, and 
welcoming him when wearied at night to her 
faithful, and affectionate, and grateful bosom. 

At first, perhaps, a slight flush of anger towards 
Sarah tinged her cheek ; then followed in quick 
succession, or all blended together in one sicken 
ing pang, fear, disappointment, the sense of wrong, 
and the cruel pain of disesteeming and despising 
one on whom her heart had rested with all its 
best and purest affections. But though there was a 
keen struggle between many feelings in her heart, 
her resolution was formed during that very con- 
flict ; and she said within herself, “ If it be even 
so, neither will I be so unjust as to deprive poor 
Sarah of the man who ought to marry her, nor 
will 1 be so mean and low-spirited, poor as I am, 
and dear as he has been unto me, as to become 
his wife.” 

While these thoughts were calmly passing in the 
soul of this magnanimous girl, all her former affec- 
tion for Sarah revived ; and, as she sighed for her- 
self, she wept aloud for her friend. “ Be quiet, bo 
quiet, Sarah, and sob not so as if your heart were 
breaking. It need not be thus with you. Oh ! sob 
not so sair You surely have not walked in this 
one day from the heart of the parish of Montrath?” 
“ I have indeed done so, and I am as weak as the 
wreathed snaw. God knows, little matter if I 
should die away ; for, after all, I fear he will never 


73 


THE lover’s lAST VISIT. 


think of me for his wife, and you, Mary, will low- 
a husband with whom you would have been happy. 
I feel, after all, that I must appear a mean wretch 
in your eyes.” 

There was a silence between them ; and Mary 
Robinson looking at the clock, saw that it wanted 
only about a quarter of an hour from the time of 
tryst. “ Give me the oaths and promises you 
mentioned out of your bosom, Sarah, that I mav 
show them to Gabriel when he comes. And once 
more I promise, by all the sunny and all the 
snowy days we have sat together in the same plaid 
on the hill-side, or in the lonesome charcoal plots 
and nests o’ green in the woods, that if my Ga- 
briel — did I say my Gabriel ? — has forsaken you 
and deceived me thus, never shall his lips touch 
mine again, — never shall he put ring on my finger 
—never shall this head lie in his bosom, — no, 
never, never ; notwithstanding all the happy, too 
happy hours and days I have been with him, near oi 
at a distance, — on the corn-rig, — among the mea- 
dow-hay, — in the singing school.- — at harvest 
home, — in this room, and in God’s own house. 
So help me God, but I will keep this vow !” 

Poor Sarah told, in a few hurried words, the 
story of her love and desertion — how Gabriel, 
whose business as a shepherd often took him into 
Montratli parish, had wooed her, and fixed every 
thing about their marriage, nearly a year ago. 
But that he had become causelessly jealous cil' a 
young man whom she scarcely knew ; had ac 
cused her of want of virtue, and for many months 
had never once come to see her. “ This morning, 
for the first time, I heard, for a certainty, from one 
who knew Gabriel well, and all his concerns, that 
the banns had been proclaimed in the church be- 
tween him and you ; and that in a day or ttvo 


This i.OVfctv’s LAST VISIT. 


73 


•^ou were to be married. And though I felt drown- 
ing, I determined to make a struggle for my life, 
— lor oh! Mary, Mary, my heart is not like your 
heart, it wants your wisdom, your meekness, your 
piety : and if I am to lose Gabriel, will I destroy 
my miserable life, and face the wrath of God sit- 
ting in judgment upon sinners.” 

At this burst of passion Sarah hid her face with 
her hands, as if sensible that she had committed 
blasphemy. 3Iary seeing her wearied, hungry, 
thirsty, and feverish, spoke to her in the most sooth- 
ing manner ; led' her into the little parlour called 
the Sfience, then removed into it the table, with 
the oaten cakes, butter, and milk ; and telling hei 
to take some refreshment, and then lie down in 
the bed, but on no accoun. to leave the room till 
called for, gave her a sisterly kiss, and left her. In 
a few minutes the outer door ojiened, and Gabriel 
entered. 

The lover said, “ How is my sweet Mary V' 
with a beaming countenance ; and gently drawing 
her to his bosom, he kissed her cheek. Mary did. 
not, could not, wished not, at once to release her- 
self from his enfolding arms. Gabriel had always 
treated her as the woman who was to be his wife ; 
and though at this time her heart knew its own. 
bitterness, yet she repelled not endearments that 
were so latelv (leli«htful, and sutfered him to take 
her almost in his arms to their accustomed seat. 
He held her hand in his, and began to speak in his 
usual kind and affectionate language, — kind and 
affectionate it was, for though he ought not to 
have done so, he loved her, as he thought, better 
than his life. Her heart could not in one small 
short hour forget a whole year of bliss. She 
could not yet fling away with her own hand what, 
only a f'*w minutes ago seemed to her the hope of 


74 


THE LCVEU’s LAST VISIT. 


paradise. Her soul sickened within her, and sh* 
wished that she were dead, or never had been horn. 

“ O Gabriel ! Gabriel ! well indeed have I loved 
you ; nor will I say, after all that has passed be- 
tween us, that you are not deserving after all, of 
a better love than mine. Vain were it to deny my 
love either to you, or to my own soul. But look 
me in the face — be not wrathful ; think not to hide 
the truth either from yourself or me, for that now 
is impossible; but tell me solemnly, as you shall 
answer to God at the judgment-day, if you know 
any reason why I must not be your wedded wifel” 
She kept her mild, moist eyes fixed upon him ; 
but he hung down his head, and uttered not a 
word, for he was guilty before her, before his own 
soul, and before God. 

“ Gabriel, never could we have been happy . 
for you often, often told me, that all the secrets of 
your heart were known unto me, yet never did 
you tell me this. How could you desert the pool 
innocent creature that loved you 1 and how could you 
use me so, who loved you perhaps as well as shet 
but whose heart God will teach not to forget you — 
for that may I never do — but to think on yon witl 
that friendship and attection which innocently ] 
can bestow upon you, when you are Sarah’s hus- 
band. For, Gabriel, I have this night sworn, no 
in anger or passion — no, no — but in sorrow and 
pity for another’s wrongs — in sorrow also, deny 
it will I not, for my own, to look on you from this 
hour, as on one whose life is to be led apart from 
my life, and whose love must never more meet 
with my love. Speak not unto me — lock not on 
me with beseeching eyes. Duty and religion for- 
bid us ever to be man and wife. But you know 
there is one, besides me, whom you loved before 
you loved me, and. therefore, it may be, belter 


THE lover’s last VISIT. 76 

loo; and that she loves yon, and is faithful, as if 
God had made you one, I say without fear — I, 
who have known her since she was a child, al 
ihough fatally for the peace of us both, we have 
long lived apart. Sarah is in the.house, and I will 
bring her unto you in tears, but not tears of peni- 
tence, for she is as innocent of that sin as I am, • 
who now speak,” 

Mary went into the little parlour, and led Sarah 
forward in her hand. Despairing as she had 
been, yet when she had heard from poor Mary’s 
voice speaking so fervently, that Gabriel had 
come, and that her friend was interceding in her 
behalf, — the poor girl had arranged her liair in a 
small looking-glass, — tied it up with a riband 
which Gabriel had given her, and put into the 
breast of her gown a little gilt brooch, that con- 
tained locks of their blended hair. Pale, but 
beautiful, for Sarah Pringle was the fairest girl in 
all the country, she advanced with a flush on that 
paleness, of reviving hope, injured pride, and love 
that was ready to forgive all and forget all, so that 
once again she could be restored to the place in 
his heart that she had lost. “ What have I ever 
done, Gabriel, that you should fling me from you ? 
May my soul never live by the atonement of my 
Saviour, if I am not innocent of that sin, yea, of 
all distant thought of that sin with which you, 
even you, have in your hard-heartedness charged 
me. Look me in the face, Gabriel, and think of 
all I have been unto you, and if you say that, be- 
fore God, and in your own soul, you believe me 
guilty, then will I go away out into the dark night, 
and, long before morning, my troubles will be at 
an end.” 

Truth was not only in her ferveat and simple 
words, but in the tone cf her voice, the colour of 


70 


THE I over’s I,A81 VISIT. 


her face, and the light of her ejes. Gabriel had 
long shut up his heart against her. At first he had 
doubted her virtue, and that doubt gradually weak- 
ened his affections. At last, he tried to believe 
her guilty, or to forget her altogether, when his 
heart turned to Mary Robinson, and he thought 
• of making her his wife. His injustice, his wick- 
edness, his baseness, which he had so long con- 
cealed, in some measure, from himself, by a dim 
feeling of wrong done him, and afterward by the 
pleasure of a nevv love, now appeared to him as 
they were, and without disguise. Mary took Sa- 
rah’s hand and placed it within that of her con- 
trite lover, for had the tumult of conflicting pas- 
sions allowed him to know his own soul, such at that 
moment he surely was ; saying, with a voice as 
composed as the eyes Avith which she looked upon 
them, “ I restore you to each other ; and 1 al- 
ready feel the comfort of being able to do my 
duty. I will be bride’smaid. And I now implore 
the blessing of God upon your marriage. Gabri- 
el, your betrothed will sleep this night in my bo- 
som. We will think of you — better, perhaps, than 
you deserve. It is not for me to tell you what 
you have to repent of. Let us all three pray for 
each other this night, and evermore when we are 
on our knees before our Maker. The old people 
will soon be at home. Good night, Gabriel.” 
He kisied Sarah, and, giving Mary a look of 
shame, humility, and reverence, he went home to 
meditation and repentance. 

It was now midsummer; and before the harvest 
had been gathered in thro<ighout the higher val- 
leys, or tlie sheep brought from the mountain- 
fold, Gabriel and Sarah were man and wife. Tim^ 
passed on, and a blooming family cheered their 
board and fireside Nor did Mary Robinson, the 


THE MINISTER S WIDOW. 


n 


Flower of the Forest, (for so the Woodcutter’s 
daughter was often called,) pass her life in single 
blessedness. She, too, became a wife and mo- 
ther ; and the two families, who lived at last on 
adjacent farms, were remarkable for mutual affec- 
tion, throughout all the parish; and more than 
one intermarriage took place between them, at a 
time when the worthy parents had almost entirely 
forgotten the trying incident of their youth. 


THE MINISTER’S WIDOW. 

The dwelling of the Minister’s Widow stood 
within a few fields of the beautiful village of Cas 
tle-Holm, — about a hundred low-roofed houses 
that had taken the name of the parish of which 
they were the little romantic capital. Two small 
reguiar rows of cottages faced each other, on the 
gentle acclivity of a hill, separated by a broomy 
common of rich pasturage, through which hurried 
a translucent loch-born rivulet, with here and 
there its shelves and waterfalls overhung by the 
alder or weeping birch. Each straw-roofed abode, 
snug and merry as a bee-hive, had behind it a few 
roods of garden ground; so that, in spring, the 
village was covered with a fragrant cloud of blos- 
soms on the pear, apple, and plum trees ; and in 
autumn w'as brightened vvitli golden fruitage. In 
tlie heart of the village stood the Manse ; and in 
k had she, who was now a w'idow, passed twenty 
years of privacy anr peace. On the death of her 
fiusbaud, slie had retired Avith her family — three 
bovs, to th(! jdeasant cottage whicli she now iiiliU' 

■ 7 * 


78 


THE MINISTEk’s WIDOW. 


bited. It belonged to the old lady of the Castle 
who \» as ])atroness of the parish, and who accept 
ed, from the minister’s widow, of a mere trifle as 
a nominal rent. On approaching the village, 
strangers always fixed upon the Sunny-side for 
me INIanse itself — for an air of serenity and retire- 
ment brooded over it as it looked out from below 
Its sheltering elms, and the farm-yard with its corn- 
stack marking the homestead of the agricultural 
cenant was there wanting. A neat gravel-walk 
winded away, without a weed, from the white gate 
Dy the road-side, through lilacs and laburnums ; 
and the unruffled and unbroken order of all the 
.•)reathing things that grew around, told that a quiet 
and probably small family lived within those beau- 
tiful boundaries. 

The change from the Manse to Sunny-side bad 
been with the widow a change from happiness to 
resignation. Her husband had diei of a consump- 
tion ; and for nearly a year she had known that 
his death was inevitable. Both of th«m had lived 
in the spirit of that Christianity which he had 
preached ; and therefore the last year they passed 
together, in spite of the many bitter tears which 
she who Avas to be the s«irvivor shed when none 
were by to see, Avas perhaps on the Avhole the best 
deserving of the name of happiness, of the tAventy 
that had passed over their earthly union. To the 
dying man death had lost all his terrors. He sat 
beside his Avife, Avith his bright holloAV eyes anil 
emaciated frame, among the balmy shades of his 
garden, and spoke Avith fervour of the many ten- 
der mercies God had vouchsafed to them here, 
and of the promises made to all Avho believed in 
the gcsnel. They did not sit together to persuade, 
to convince, or to uphold each other’s faith, fiT 
'hey believed in the things that Avere unseen, jusl 


THE MJNrSTEu’s WIDOW. TU 

as they believed in the beautiful blossomed arbour 
that then contained tliem in its sliading silence. 
Accordingly, when the hour was at hand, in which 
he was to render up his spirit into the hand of God, 
lie was like a grateful and wearied man falling 
into a sleep. Plis widow closed his eyes with her 
own hands ; nor was her soul then disquieted 
within her. In a few days she heard the bell toll- 
ing, and from her sheltered window looked out, 
and followed the funeral with streaming eyes, 
an unweeping heart. With a calm countenance, 
and humble voice, she left and bade farewell to 
the sweet Manse, where she had so long been 
happy — and as her three beautiful boys, with faces 
dimmed by natural grief, but brightened by natu- 
ral gladness, glided before her steps, she shut the 
gate of her new dwelling with an undistui-bed soul, 
and moved her lips in silent thanksgiving to the 
God of the fatherless and the widow. 

Her three boys, each one year older than the 
other, grew in strength and beauty, the pride and 
flower of the parish. In school tliey were (juiet 
and composed ; but in play-hours they bounded 
in their glee together like young deer, and led the 
.sportful flock in all excursions through the wood 
or over the moor. They resembled, in features 
and in voice, both of their gentle parents ; but na- 
ture had moulded to quite another character their 
joyful and impetuous souls. When sitting or 
walking with their mother, they subdued their ^pi 
rits down to suit her equable and gentle content 
ment ; and behaved towards her with a delicacy 
and thoughtfulness which made her heart to sing 
for joy. So too did they sit in the kirk on Sah- 
batli, and during all that day the fountain of their 
joy seemed to subside and to lie still. They knew 
U) stand solemnly with their mother, now and then 


so THE minister’s WIDOW. 

on the calm summer evenings, beside their fathei’s 
grave. They remembered well his pale, kind 
face — his feeble walk — his bending frame — his 
hand laid in blessing on their young heads — and 
the last time they ever heard him speak. The 
glad boys had not forgotten their father ; and that 
they proved by their piety unto her whom most 
on earth had their father loved. But their veins 
were filled with youth, health, and the electricity 
of joy ; and they carried without and within the 
house such countenances as at any time coming 
upon their mother’s eyes on a sudden, was like a 
torch held up in the dim melancholy of a mist, 
diffusing cheerfulness and elevation. 

Y ears passed on. Although the youngest was 
but a boy, the eldest stood on the verge of maii- 
liood, for he had entered his seventeenth year, and 
was bold, straight, and tall, with a voice deepen- 
ing ill its tone, a graver expression round the glad- 
ness of his eyes, and a sullen mass of coal-black 
hair, hanging over the smooth whiteness of his 
open forehead. But why describe the three beau- 
tiful brothers 1 They knew that there was a world 
lying at a distance that called upon them to leave 
the fields, and woods, and streams, and lochs of 
Castle-Holm ; and, born and bred in peace as 
they had been, their restless hearts were yet all on 
lire, and they burned to join a life of danger, strife, 
and tumult. No doubt it gave their mother a sad 
lieart to think that all her three boys, who she 
knew loved her so tenderly, could leave her all 
alone, and rush into the far-off world. But who 
shall curb nature? Who ought to try to curb it 
when its bent is strong? She reasoned awhile 
and tried to dissuade. But it was in Vain. Then 
she applied to her friends ; and the widow of the 
minister of Castle-Holm, retired as his life had 


THE MINlSTEn’s WIDOW. 


81 


been, was not without friends of rank and power 
In one year her three boys had their wish, — in one 
year they left Sunny-side, one after the other ; — 
William to India — Edward to Spain — and Harry 
to a man-of-war. 

Still was the widow happy. The house that so 
often used to be ringing with joy was now indeed 
too, too silent ; and that utter noiselessness some- 
times made her heart sick when sitting by herself 
in the solitary room. But by nature she was a 
gentle, meek, resigned, and happy being ; and had 
she even been otherwise, the sorrow she had suf- 
fered, and the spirit of religion which her whole 
life had instilled, must have reconciled her to what 
was now her lot. Great cause had she to be 
glad. Far away as India was, and seemingly 
more remote in her imagination, loving letters 
came from her son there in almost every ship that 
sailed for Britain ; and if, at times, something de- 
layed them, she came to believe in the necessity of 
such delays, and, without quaking, waited till the 
blessed letter did in truth appear. Of Edward, in 
Spain, she often heard ; though for him she suf- 
fered more than for the others. Not that she loved 
him better, for, like three stars, each possessed 
alike the calm heaven of her heart ; but he was 
with Wellesley, and the regiment in which he served 
seemed to be conspicuous in all skirmishes, and in 
every battle. Henry, her youngest boy, who left 
her before he had finished his fourteenth year, she 
often heard from ; his ship sometimes put into 
port ; and once, to the terror and consternation 
of her loving and yearning heart, the young mid- 
shipman stood before her, with a laughing voice, 
on the floor of the parlour, and rushed into hef 
arms. He had got leave of absence for a tort- 
night, and proudly, although sadly too, did shi 


THE minister’s WIDOW. 


look on her dear boy when he was sitting in thfe 
kirk with his uniform on, and his war weapons by 
his side, — a fearless and beautiful stripling on 
whom many an eye was insensibly turned even 
during service. And, to be sure, when the con- 
gregation were dismissed, and the young sailor 
came smiling out into the church-yard, never was 
there such a shaking of hands seen before. The 
old men blessed the gallant boy, — many of the 
mothers looked at him not without tears ; and the 
young maidens, who had heard that he had been 
in a bloody engagement, and once nearly ship- 
wrecked, gazed upon him with unconscious 
blushes, and bosoms that beat with innocent emo- 
tion. A blessed week it was indeed that he was 
then with his mother; and never before had Sun- 
ny-side seemed so well to deserve its name. 

To love, to fear, and to obey God, was the rule 
of this widow’s life. And the time was near at 
hand when she was to be called upon to practise 
it in every silent, secret, darkest corner and recess 
of her afflicted spirit. Her eldest son, William, 
fell in storming a fort in India, as he led the for- 
iorn-hope. He was killed dead in a moment, and fell 
into the trench with all his lofty plumes. Edward 
was found dead atTalavera,with the colours of his 
/egiment tied round his body : and the ship in 
which Henry was on board, that never would have 
struck her flag to any human power sailing on the 
sea, was driven by a storm on a reef of rocks, — 
went to pieces during the night, — and of eight hun- 
dred men not fifty were saved. Of that number 
Henry was not, — but his body was found next 
day on the sand, along with those of many of the 
crew, and buried, as it deserved, with all honours 
and in a place where few but sailors slept. 

In one month, one little montl. did the tidings 


THE minister’s WIDI W. 


82 


»f the three deaths reach Sunny-side. A govern- 
nent letter informed her of William’s 'death ir 
India, and added, that on account of the distin- 
guished character of the young soldier, a smal' 
pension would be settled on his mother. Had she 
been starving of want, instead of blest with com- 
petence, that word would have had then no mean- 
ing to her ear. Yet true it is, that a human — an 
earthly pride, cannot be utterly extinguished, even 
by severest anguish, in a mother’s heart, yea, even 
although her best hopes are garnered up in heaven ; 
and the weeping widow could not help feeling it 
now, when, with the black wax below her eyes, 
she read how her dead boy had not fallen in the 
service of an ungrateful state. A few days after- 
ward, a letter came from himself, written in the 
highest spirits and tenderest affection. His mo- 
ther looked at every word — every letter — every 
dash of the pen ; and still one thought, one 
thought only, was in her soul, “ the living hand 
that traced these lines, where, what is it now V' 
But this was the first blow only : ere the new-moon 
was visible, the widow knew that she was altogether 
childless. 

It was in a winter hurricane that her youngest 
boy had perished ; and the names of those whose 
health had hitherto been remembered at every fes- 
tal Christmas, throughout all the parish, from the 
Castle to the humblest hut, were now either sup- 
pressed within the heart, or pronounced with a low 
voice and a sigh. During three months Sunny- 
side looked almost as if uninhabited. Yet the 
smoke from one chimney told that the childless 
widow was sitting alone at her fireside ; and vhen 
her only servant was spoken to at church, or on 
the village greei., and asked how her mistress was 
btaring these dispensations, the answer’was, that 


84 


THE minister’s WIDOW 


her heallli seemed little, if at all impaired, and that 
she talked of coming to divine service in a few 
weeks, if her health would permit. She had been 
seen, through the leafless hedge, standing at the 
parlour window, and had motioned with Inn* hand 
to a neighbour who, in passing, had uncovered 
his head. Her weekly bounty to several poor and 
bed-ridden persons had never suffered but one 
week’s intermission. It was always sent to them 
on Saturday night; and it was on Saturday night 
that all the parish had been thrown into tears, with 
the news that Henry’s ship had been wrecked, and 
the brave boy drowned. On that evening she had 
forgotten the poor. 

But now the spring had put forth her tender 
buds and blossoms — had strewn the black ground 
under the shrubs with flowers — and was bringing 
up the soft, tender, and beautiful green over the 
awakening face of the earth. There was a revival 
of the spirit of life and gladness over the garden, 
and the one encircling field of Sunny-side; and 
so, likewise, under the grace of God, was there a 
revival of the soul that had been sorrowing within 
its concealment. On the first sweet dewy Sabbath 
of May, the widow was seen closing behind her 
the little white gate, which for some months her 
hand had not touched. She gave a gracious, but 
mournful smile, to all her friends, as slie passed on 
through the midst of them, along with the minis- 
ter, wlio had joined her on entering the church- 
yard; and although it was observed that she turned 
pale as she sat down in her pew, with the Bibles 
and Psalm-books that had belonged to her sons 
lying before her, as they themselves had enjoined 
when they went away, yet her face brightened 
even as her heart began to burn within her, at the 
simple music of the psalm. The prayers of tlu 


THE minister’s WIDOW. 


85 


congregation had some months before been re 
quested for her, as a person in great distress ; and 
during service, the young minister, according to 
her desire, now said a few simple words, that inti- 
mated to the congregation, that the childless widow 
was, through his lips, returning thanks to Almighty 
God, for that he had not forsaken her in her trou 
ble, but sent resignation and peace. 

From that day she was seen, as before, in her 
house, in her garden, along the many pleasant 
walks all about the village ; and in the summer 
evenings, though not so often as formerly, in the 
dwellings of her friends, both high and low. From 
her presence a more gentle manner seemed to be 
breathed over the rude, and a more heartfelt deli- 
cacy over the refined. Few had sufiered as she 
had sufiered ; all her losses were such as could be 
understood, felt, and wept over by all hearts ; and 
all boisterousness or levity of joy would have 
seemed an outrage on her, who, sad and melan- 
choly herself, yet wished all around her happy, 
and often lighted up her countenance with a grate- 
ful smile, at the sight of that pleasure which she 
could not but observe to be softened, sobered, and 
subdued for her sake. 

Such was the account of her, her sorrows, and 
her resignation, which I received on the first visit 
I paid to a family near Castle-Ilolm, after the 
final consummation of her grief. Well known 
to me had all the dear boys been ; their father and 
mine had been labourers in the same vineyard ; 
and as I had always been a welcome visitor, when 
a boy, at the Manse of Castle-Holm, so had C 
been, when a man, at Sunny-side. Last time 1 
hud been there, it was during the holidays, and i 
hud accompanied the three boys on their fishi ig 
►•xcursions to the Lochs in the moor; and in thcr 


66 


THE minister’s (TIDOW. 


evenings pursued with them their humble and use- 
ful studies; so I could not leave Castle-Holm 
without visiting Sunny-side, although my heart 
misgave me, and I wished I could have delayed it 
till another summer. 

I sent word that I was coming to see her, and 1 
found her sitting in that well-known little parlour, 
where I had partaken the pleasure of so many 
merry evenings, with those whose laughter was 
now extinguished. We sat for a while together, 
speaking on ordinary topics, and then utterly si- 
lent. But the restraint she had imposed upon her- 
self she either thought unnecessary any longer, or 
felt it to be impossible ; and, rising up, went to a 
little desk, from which she brought forth three 
miniatures, and laid them down upon the table 
before us, saying, “ Behold the faces of my three 
dead boys !” 

So bright, breathing, and alive did they appear, 
that for a moment I felt impelled to speak to them, 
and to whisper their names. She beheld my emo- 
tion, and said unto me, “ Oh ! could you believe 
that they are all dead ! Does not that smile on 
Willy’s face seem as if it were immortal 'I Do 
not Edward’s sparkling eyes look so bi-ight as if 
the mists of death could never have overshadowed 
them 'I and think — oh ! think, that ever Henry’ 
golden hair should have been draggled in the 
brine, and filled full, full, I doubt not, of the soil- 
ing sand !” 

I put the senseless images one by one to my 
lips, and kissed their foreheads — for dearly had 1 
loved these three brothers ; and then I shut them 
up and removed them to another part of the room. 
I wished to speak, but I could not ; and, looking 
on the face of her who was before me, 1 knew that 
her grief would find utterance, and that not until 


THE MINISTER S WIDOW. 


67 


i^ie had luiburthened her heart could it be restored 
to repose. 

“ They would tell you, Sir, that I bear my trials 
well ; but it is not so. Many, many unresigned 
and ungrateful tears has my God to forgive in me, 
a poor, weak, and repining worm. Almost every 
day, almost every night, do I weep before these si- 
lent and beautiful phantoms ; and when I wipe 
away the breath and mist of tears from their faces, 
there are they smiling continually upon me ! Oh ! 
death is a shocking thought when it is linked in 
love with creatures so young as these ! More in- 
supportable its gushing tenderness, than even dry 
despair ; and, methinks I could bear to live with- 
out them, and never to see them more, if I could 
only cease to pity them ! But that can never be. 
It is for them I weep, not for myself. If they 
were to be restored to life, would I not lie down 
with thankfulness in the grave ? William and 
Edward were struck down, and died, as they 
thought, in glory and triumph. Death to them 
was merciful. jBut who can know, although they 
may try to dream of it in horror, what the young- 
est of them, my sweet Harry, suftered, through 
that long dark howling night of snow, when the 
ship was going to pieces on the rocks !” 

The last dismal thought held her for a while si- 
lent ; and some tears stood in drops on her eye- 
lashes, but seemed again to be absorbed. Her 
heart appeared unable to cling to the horrors of the 
shipwreck, although it coveted them ; and her 
thoughts reverted to other objects. “ I walk often 
into the rooms where they used to sleep, and look 
on their beds till I think I see their faces lying 
with shut eyes on their pillows. Early in the 
morning, do I often think I hear them singing — I 
waken from troubled unrest, as if the knock of 


iB 


THE MINISTER S WIDOW”. 


their sportive hands were at my door summoning 
me to rise. All their stated hours of study and of 
play — when they went to school and returned from 
it— when they came in to meals — when they said 
their prayers — when they went leaping at night to 
bed as lightsomely, after all the day’s fatigue, as if 
they had just risen. Oh ! — Sir — at all these times, 
and many, and many a time beside these, do I 
think of them whom you loved.” 

While thus she kept indulging the passion of 
her grief, she observed” the tears I could no longer 
conceal ; and the sight of my sorrow seemed to 
give, for a time, a loftier character to hers, as if 
my weakness made her aware of her own, and 
she had become conscious of the character of her 
vain lamentations. “ Yet, why should I so bitter- 
ly weep 1 Pain had not troubled them — passion 
had not disturbed them — vice had not polluted 
them. May I not say, ‘My children are in heaven 
with their father ’ — and ought I not, therefore, to 
dry up all these foolish tears now and for ever- 
more 1” 

Composure was suddenly shed over her coun- 
tenance, like gentle sunlight over a cheerless day, 
and she looked around the room as if searching 
for some pleasant objects that eluded her sight. 
“ See,” said she, “ yonder are all their books, ar- 
ranged just as Henry arranged them on his unex- 
pected visit. Alas ! too many of them are about 
he troubles and battles of the sea ! But it matters 
not now. You are looking at that drawing. It 
was done by himself, — that is the ship he was so 
proud of, sailingin sunshine, and a pleasant breeze. 
Another ship indeed was she soon after, when she 
lay upon the reef! But as for the books, I take 
them out of their places and dust them, and re 
turn them to their places, every week. I used to 


THK minister’s WIDOW 89 

reaa lo my boys, sitting rodiid my Knets, out of 
many of these books, before they could read them- 
selves, — but now I never peruse tliem, for tlieir 
cheerful stories are not for me. But there is one 
book I do read, and without it I should long ago 
have been dead. The more the heart suffers, the 
more does it understand that book. Never do I 
read a single chapter, without feeling assured of 
something more awful in our nature than I fell be- 
fore. My own heart misgives me ; my own soul 
betrays me ; all my comforts desert me in a panic ; 
but never yet once did I read one whole page of 
the New Testament that I did not know that the 
eye of God is on all his creatures, and on me like 
the rest, though my husband and all my sons are 
dead, and I may have many years yet to live alone 
on the earth.” 

After this we walked out into the little avenue, 
now dark with the deep rich shadows of summer 
beauty. We looked at that beauty, and spoke of 
the surpassing brightness of the weather during all 
June, and advancing July. It is not in nature al 
ways to be sad ; and the remembrance of all her 
melancholy and even miserable confessions was 
now like an uncertain echo, as I beheld a placid 
smile on her face, a smile of such perfect resigna- 
tion, that it might not falsely be called a smile of 
joy. AVe stood at the little Mdiite gate ; and with 
a gentle voice, that perfectly accorded with that 
expression, she bade God bless me ; and then 
with composed steps, and now and then turning 
up, as she walked along, the massy flower-branches 
of the laburnum as bent with their load of beauty 
they trailed upon the ground, she disappeared into 
that retirement, which, notwithstanding all I had 
seen and heard, I could not but think deserved al- 
8 * 


THE SNOW-STORM. 


m 

irost to be called happy, in a world which tiet 
the most thoughtless know is a world of sorrovs* 


THE SNOW-STORM. 

In Summtr there is beauty in the wildest moors 
of Scotland, and the wayfaring man who sits down 
for an hour’s rest beside some little spring that 
flows unheard through the brightened moss and 
water-cresses, feels his weary heart revived by the 
silent, serene, and solitary prospect. On every 
side sweet sunny spots of verdure smile towards 
him from among the melancholy heather — unex- 
pectedly in the solitude a stray sheep, it may be 
with its lamb, starts half alarmed at his motionless 
figure — insects large, bright, and beautiful, come 
careering by him through the desert air — nor does 
the Wild want its own songsters, the gray linnet, 
fond of the blooming furze, and now and then the 
larkmountingup to heaven above the summits of the 
green pastoral hills. During such a sunshiny 
hour, the lonely cottage on the waste seems to 
stand in a paradise ; and as he rises to pursue his 
journey, the traveller looks back and blesses it 
with a mingled emotion of delight and envy. There, 
thinks he, abide the children of Innocence and 
Contentment, the two most benign spirits that 
watch over human life. 

But other thoughts arise in the mind of him who 
may chance to journey through the same scene m 
the desolation of winter. The cold bleak sky gir- 
dles the moor as with a belt of ice — life is frozen 
fn air and on earth. The silence is not of repoita 


THE SNOVT-STORM. 


m 


but extinction — and should a solitary human dwell- 
ing catch his eye half-buried in the snow, he is sad 
for the sake of them whose destiny it is to abide 
far from the cheerful haunts of men, shrouded up 
ill melancholy, by poverty held in thrall, or pining 
away in unvisited and untended disease. 

But, in good truth, the heart of human life is 
but imperfectly discovered from its countenance ; 
ami before we can know what the summer, or 
what the winter yields for enjoyment or trial to 
o-ur country’s peasantry, we must have conversed 
with them in their fields and by their firesides ; 
and made ourselves acquainted with the powerful 
ministry of the seasons, not over those objects 
alone that feed the eye and the imagination, but 
over all the incidents, occupations, and events, 
that modify or constitute the existence of the jioor. 

I have a short and simple story to tell of the 
winter life of the moorland cottager — a story but 
of one evening — with few events and no signal 
catastro])he — but which may haply please those 
hearts whose delight it is to think on the humble 
under-plots that are carrying on in the great Drama 
of Life. 

Two cottagers, husband and wife, Avere sitting 
by their cheerful peat-fire one winter evening, in 
a small lonely hut on the edge of a wide moor, at 
some miles distance from any other habitation. 
There had been, at one time, several huts of the 
same kind erected close together, and inhabited 
by families of the poorest class of day-labourers, 
who found work among the distant farms, and at 
night returned to dwellings which Avere rent-free, 
with their little garden Avon from the Avaste. But 
one family after another had dvAundled aAvay, and 
the turf-built huts had all fallen into ruins, except 
ore that had ahA'ays stood in the centre of this lil* 


THE SNOW-STORM. 


02 

tie solitary village, with its summer walls covered 
with tlie richest hoiiey-suckles, and in the midst ol' 
the brightest of all the gardens. It alone now 
seiit up its smoke into the clear w'inter sky — and 
Its little end window, now lighted up, was the only 
ground-star that shone towards the belated travel- 
ler, if any such ventured to cross, on a winter 
night, a scene so dreary and desolate. The aftairs 
of the small household were all arranged for the 
night. The little rough pony that had drawn in 
a sledge, from the heart of, the Black-Moss, the 
fuel by whose blaze the cotters were now sitting 
cheerily, and the little Highland cow, whose milk 
enabled them to live, were standing amicably to 
gether, under cover of a rude shed, of which one 
side was formed by the peat-stack, and which was 
at once byre, and stable, and hen-roost. Within, 
the clock ticked cheerfully as the fire-light reached 
its old oak-wmod case across the yellow-sanded 
floor — and a small round table stood between, 
covered with a snow-white cloth, on which were 
milk and oat-cakes, the morning, mid-day, and 
evening meal of these frugal and contented cotters. 
The spades and the mattocks of the labourer were 
collected into one corner, and showed that the suc- 
ceeding day was the blessed Sabbath — wliile on 
the wooden chimney-piece was seen lying an open 
Bible ready for family worship. 

The father and the mother were sitting together 
without opening their lips, but with their hearts 
overflowing with happiness, for on this Saturday- 
night they were, every minute, expecting to hear 
at the latch the hand of their only daughter, a 
maiden of about fifteen years, who was at service 
with a farmer over the hills. This dutiful child 
was, as they knew, to bring home to them “ her 
rair-worn penny fee,” a pittance which, in the 


THE SNOW-srORM. 


OS 

Jieaiity of her girlliood, she earned singing at her 
work, and wliich in the benignity of that sinless 
time, she would pour with tears into the bosoms 
she so dearly loved. Forty shillings a year were 
all the wages of sweet Hannah Lee — but though 
she wore at her labour a tortoise-shell comb in her 
auhurn hair, and though in the kirk none were 
more becomingly arrayed than she, one half, at 
least, of her earnings were to he reserved for the 
holiest of all purposes, and her kind innocent heart 
was gladdened when she looked on the little purse 
that was, on the long-expected Saturday-niglit, to 
be taken from her bosom, and put, with a blessing, 
into the hand of her father, now growing old at 
his daily toils. 

Of such a child the happy cotters were thinking 
in their silence. And well indeed might they be 
called happy. It is at that sweet season that lilial 
piety is most beautiful. Their own Hannah had 
just outgrown the mere unthijiking gladness of 
childhood, but had not yet reached that time, when 
inevitable selfishness mixes with the pure current 
of love. She had begun to think on what her af- 
fectionate heart had left so long ; and when she 
looked on the pale face and bending frame of her 
mother, on the deepening wrinkles and whitening 
hairs of her father, often would she lie weejting 
for their sakes on her midnight bed — and wish 
that she were beside them as they slept, that she 
might kneel down and kiss them, and mention 
their names over and over again in her prayer. 
The parents whom before she had only loved, her 
expanding heart now also venerated. With gush- 
ing tenderness was now mingled a holy fear and 
an awful reverence. She had discerned the rela- 
tion in which she, an only child, stood to her j)ooi 
parents, ii'uv that they were getting old, and thert 


01 


THE SNOW-STORM. 


was not a passage in Scripture tliat spake of pa- 
rents or of children, from Joseph sold into slavery, 
to Mary weeping below the Cross, that was not 
written, never to be obliterated, on her uncorruol 
ed heart. 

The father rose from his seat, and went to the 
door, to look out into the night. The stars were 
ui thousands — and the full moon was risen. It 
was almost light as day, and the snow, that seem- 
ed encrusted with diamonds, was so hardened by 
the frost, that his daughter's homeward feet would 
leave no mark on its surface. He had been toil- 
ing all day among the distant Castle-woods, and, 
stiff and wearied as he now was, he was almost 
tempted to go to meet his child — but his wife’s 
kind voice dissuaded him, and returning to the 
fireside, they began to talk of her, whose image 
had been so long passing before them in their si- 
lejice. 

“ She is growing up to be a bonny lassie,” said 
the mother ; “ her long and weary attendance on 
me during my fever last spring, kept her down 
awhile — but now she is sprouting first and fair as 
a lily, and may the blessing of God be as dew and 
as sunshine to our sweet flower all the days she 
bloometh upon this earth.” “ Ay, Agnes,” re- 
plied the father, “ we are not very old yet — though 
we are getting older — and a few years Avill bring 
her to woman’s estate, and what thing on this 
earth, think ye, human or brute, would ever think 
of injuring herl Why, I was speaking about her 
yesterday to the minister as he was riding and 
he told me that none answered at the examination 
in the kirk so well as Hannah. Poor thing — J 
well think she has all the Bible by heart — indeed, 
she has read but little else — only some stories,— 
loo true ones, of the blessed martyrs, and some o 


THE SNOW-STORM, 


9ri 

the nuld sangs o’ Scotland, in whicn there is noth* 
ing but wliat is good, and which, to be sure, she 
sings, God bless her, su eeter than any laverock.” 
” Ay — were we both to die this very night she 
would be happy. Not that she would forget us 
all the days ot her life. But have you not seen, 
husband, that God always makes the orphan hap- 
py 1 None so little lonesome as they ! They 
come to make friends o’ all the bonny and sweet 
things in the world, around them, and all the kind 
hearts in the world make o’ them. They come to 
know that God is more especially the Father o’ 
them on earth whose parents he has taken up to 
heaven — and therefore it is that they for whom so 
many have fears, fear not at all for themselves, 
but go dancing and singing along like children 
whose parents are both alive ! Would it not be 
so with our dear Hannah? So douce and thought- 
ful a child — but never sad nor miserable — ready, 
it is true, to shed tears for little, but as ready to 
dry them up and break out into smiles ! — I know 
not why it is, husband, but this night my heart 
warms towards her beyond usual. The moon 
and stars are at this moment looking down upon 
her, and she looking up to them, as she is glinting 
homewards over the snow. I wish she were but 
here, and taking the comb out o’ her bonny hair 
and letting it fall down in clusters before the lire, 
to melt away the cranreuch.” 

While the parents were thus speaking of their 
daughter, a loud sugdi of wind came suddenly over 
the cottage, and die leafless ash tree, under 
whose shelter it stood, creaked and groaned dis- 
mally as it passed by. The father started up, 
and going again to the door, saw that a sudden 
change had come over the face of the night. The 
moon had nearly disajipeared, and was just visible 


06 


THK 8XOW-8TORM. 


in a dim, yellow, glimmering deti in the sky. Ah 
the remote stars were obscured, and only one ot 
two faintly seemed in a sky that half an hour be 
faro was perfectly cloudless, but that was now 
driving with rack, and mist, and sleet, the whole 
atmosphere being in commotion. He stood for a 
single moment to observe the direction of this un 
foreseen storm, and then hastily asked for his 
staff. “ I thought I had been more weather-wise 
— A storm is coming down from the Cairnbrae- 
hawse, and we shall have nothing but a wild night.” 
He then whistled on his dog — an old sheep-dog, 
too old for its former labours — and set off to meet 
his daughter, Avho might then, for aught he knew, 
be crossing the Black-moss. The mother accom- 
panied her husband to the door, and took a long 
frightened look at the angry sky. As 8he kept 
gazing, it became still more terrible. The last 
shred of blue was extinguished — the wind went 
whirling in roaring eddies, and great flakes of 
snow circled about in the middle air, whether 
drifted up from the ground, or driven down from 
the clouds, the fear-stricken mother knew not, but 
she at last knew, that it seemed a night of danger, 
despair, and death. “ Lord have mercy on us, 
James, what will become of our poor bairn !” But 
her husband heard not her words, for he was al- 
ready out of sight in the snow-storm, and she was 
left to the terror of her own soul in that lonesome 
cottage. 

Little Hannah Lee had left her master’s house, 
soon as the rim of the great moon was seen by 
her eyes, that had been long anxiously watching 
it from the window, rising, like a joyful dream, over 
the gloomy mountain-tops ; and all by herself 
she triiiped along beneath the beauty of the silent 
heaven. Still as she kept ascending and descend 


THE SNOW-STORM. 


97 


mjr the knolls that lay in the bosom of the g3en, 
she sung to herself a song, a hymn, or a psalm, 
without the accompaniment of the streams, now 
all silent in the frost; and ever and anon she 
stopped to try to count the stars that lay in some 
ujore beautiful part of the sky, or gazed on the 
constellations that she knew, and called them in 
her joy, by the names they bore among the shep- 
herds. There M'^ere none to hear her voice, or see 
lier smiles, but the ear and eye of Providence. As 
on she glided, and took her looks from heaven she 
saw her own little fireside — her parents waiting 
for her arrival — the Bible opened for worship — 
her own little room kept so neatly for her, with its 
mirror hanging by the window, in which to braid 
her htiir by the morning light — her bed prepared 
for her by her mother’s hand — the primroses in 
the garden peeping through the snow — old Tray, 
who ever welcomed her home with his dim white 
eyes — the pony and the cow ; friends all, and in- 
mates of that happy household. So stepped she 
along, while the snow diamonds glittered around 
her feet, and the frost wove a wreath of lucid 
pearls round her forehead. 

She had now reached the edge of the Black- 
moss, which lay half way between her master’s 
and lier father’s dwelling, when she heard a loud 
noise coming down Glen-Scrae, and in a few 
seconds she felt on her face some flakes of 
snow. She looked up the glen, and saw the snow- 
storm coming down, fast as a flood. She felt no 
fears ; but she ceased her song ; and had there 
been a human eye to look upon her there, it might 
have seen a shadow on her face. She contii aied 
her course, and felt bolder and bolder every step 
that brought her nearer to her parents’ house. But 
tl’e snow-storm had now reached the Black-moss, 
Q 


98 


THE SNOW STORM. 


and the broad line of light that had Iain in the 
direction of her home, was soon swallowed up, 
and the child was in utter darkness. She saw 
nothing but the flakes of snow, interminably inter- 
mingled, and furiously wafted in the air, close to 
her head ; she heard nothing but one wdld, tierce, 
fitful howl. The cold became intense, and her 
little feet and hands were fast being benumbed 
into insensibility. 

“ It is a fearful change,” muttered the child to 
herself; but still she did not fear, ti)r she had been 
born in a moorland cottage, and lived all her days 
among the hardships of the hills. “ What will 
become of the poor sheep!” thought she, — but still 
she scarcely thought of her own danger, for inno- 
cence, and youth, and joy, are slow to think of 
aught evil befalling themselves, and thinking be- 
nignly of all living things, forget their own fear in 
their pity for others’ sorrow. At last she could no 
longer discern a single mark on the snow, either 
of human steps, or of sheep-track, or the foot-print 
of a wild-fowl. Suddenly, too, she felt out of 
breath and exhausted, — and shedding tears for 
herself at last, sank down in the snow. 

It was now that her heart began to quake with 
fear. She remembered stories of shepherds lost 
in the snow, — of a mother and child frozen to 
death on that very moor, — and, in a moment she 
knew that she was to die. Bitterly did the poor 
child weep, for death was terrible tc her, who, 
though poor, enjoyed the bright little world of 
youth and innocence. The skies of heaven were 
dearer than she knew to her, — so were the flowers 
uf earth. She had been happy at her work, — hap- 
py in her sleep, — happy in the kirk on Sabbath. 
A thousand thoughts had the solitary child, — and 
in her own heart was a spring of happiness, pure 


THE SNOW-STORM. 


Wt 

ar.d undisturbed as any fount that sparkles imseer 
all the year through in some quiet nook among 
the .pastoral hills. But now there was to be an 
end of all this, — she was to be frozen to death — 
and lie there till the thaw might come ; and then 
her father would find her body, and carry it away 
to be buried in the kirk-yard. 

The tears were frozen on her cheeks as soon as 
shed, — and scarcely had her little hands strength 
to clasp themselves together, as the thought of an 
overruling and merciful Lord came across her 
heart. Then, indeed, the fears of this religious 
child were calmed, and she heard without terror 
the plover’s wailing cry, and the deep boom of the 
bittern sounding in the moss. “ I will repeat the 
Lord’s prayer.” And drawing her plaid more 
closely around her, she whispered, beneath its in- 
effectual cover: “ Our Father which art in Heaven, 
hallowed be thy name, — thy kingdom come, — thy 
will be done on earth as it is in Heaven.” Had 
human aid been within fifty yards, it could have 
been of no avail — eye could not see her — ear could 
not hear her in that howling darkness. But that 
low jjrayer was heard in the centre of eternity, — 
and that little sinless child was lying in the snow, 
beneath the all-seeing eye of God. 

The maiden having prayed to her Father in 
heaven — then thought of her father on earth. 
Alas ! they wei-e not far separated ! The father 
was lying but a short distance from his child ; he 
too had sunk down in the drifting snow, after hav- 
ing, in less than an hour, exhausted all the strength 
of fear, pity, hope, despair and resignation, that 
could rise in a father’s heart blindly seeking to 
rescue his only child from death, thinking that one 
desperate exertion might enable them to perish in 
each other’s arms. There they lay, within h 


100 


THE SNOW-STORM. 


Stone i throw of each other, while a huge snow 
drift was every moment piling itself up into a more 
uisurmountabie barrier between the dying pareiT 
and Ids dying child. 

There was all this while a blazing fire in the 
cottage — a white-spread table — and beds prejjared 
for the family to lie down in peace. Yet was she 
who sat therein more to be pitied than the old man 
and the child stretched upon the snow. “ I will 
not go to seek them — that would be tempting 
Providence — and wilfully putting out the lamp ot 
life. No ! I will abide here and pray for their 
souls !” Then, as she knelt down, looked she at 
the useless fire burning away so cheerfully, when 
all she loved ndght be dying of cold — and, unable 
to bear the thought, she shrieked out a prayer, as 
if she might pierce the sky to the very throne of 
God, and send with it her own miserable soul to 
plead before him for the deliverance of her child 
and husband. She then fell down in blessed for- 
getfulness of all trouble, in the midst of the soli- 
tary cheerfulness of that bright-burning hearth ; 
and the Bible, Avhich she had been trying to read 
in the pauses of her agony, remained clasped in 
her hands. 

Hannah Lee had been a servant for more than 
six months, and h was not to be thony^ht that she 
was not beloved in her master’® ^tnily. Soon 

after she had left the master’s son, a 

youth of about eighteen 3 who had been among 

the hills looking after the sheep, came home, and 
was disappointed to find that he had lost an op- 
portunity of accompanying Hannah part of the 
wav to her father’s cottaire. But the hour of ei'dit 
had gone by, and not even the company of young 
Will iain Grieve could induce the kind-hearted 
daughter to delay setting out on her journey a few 


THE SNOW-STORM 


101 


minutes beyond the time promised ^o her porenfs 
^ T do not like the nijj^ht,” said William : “ there 
will be a fresh fall of snow soon, or the witch oi 
Glen Scrae is a liar, for a snow-cloud is hangino 
o’er the Birch-tree-lin, and it may be down to the 
lilack-moss as soon as Hannah Lee.” So he 
called his two sheep-dogs that had taken their 
place under the long-table before the window, and 
set out, half in joy, half in fear, to overtake Han- 
nah, and see her safely across the Black-moss. 

The snow began to drift so fast, that before he 
had reached the head )f the glen, there was no- 
thing to be seen but a little bit of the wooden rail 
of the bridge across the Sauch-burn. William 
Grieve was the most active shepherd in a large 
pastoral parish ; he had often passed the night 
among the wintry hills for the sake of a few 
sheep, and all the snow that ever fell from heaven 
would not have made him turji back when Han- 
nah Lee was before him ; and as his terrified heart 
told him, in imminent danger of being lost. As 
he advanced, he felt that it was no longer a walk 
of love or friendship, for which he had been glad 
of an excuse. Death stared him in the face, and 
his young soul, now beginning to feel all the pas- 
sions of youth, was filled with frenzy. He had 
seen Hannah every day, — at the fireside — at work 
— in the kirk — on holidays — at prayers — bringing 
sup])er to his aged parents — smiling and singing 
about the house from morning till night. She had 
often brought his own meal to him among the 
Irlls : and he now found that though he had never 
talked to her about love, except smilingly and 
playfully, that he loved her beyond father or mo- 
ther, or his own soul. “ I will save thee, Han- 
nah,” he cried, with a loud sob, “ or lie down be- 
side thee in the snow — and we will die together ii' 
Q« 


102 


THE SNOW-STORM. 


our you'h.” A wild, wliistling wind went by him, 
and the snow-flakes whirled so fiercely around his 
head, that he staj^gered on for a while in utter 
blindness. He knew the jrath that Hannah must 
Iiave taken, and went forwards shouting aloud, 
and stopping every twenty yards to listen for a 
voice. He sent his well-trained dogs over the snow 
in all directions; repeating to them her name, 
“ Hannah Lee,” that the dumb animals might, in 
their sagacity, know for whom they were search- 
ing ; and as they looked up in his face, and set oft' 
t«) scour the moor, he almost believed that they 
knew his meaning, (and it is probable they did,) 
and were eager to find in her bewilderment the 
kind maiden by whose hand they had so often been 
fed. Often went they off" into the darkness, and 
as often returned, but their looks showed that 
every quest had been in vain. Meanwhile the 
snow was of a fearful depth, and falling without 
intermission or diminution. Had the young shep- 
herd been thus alone, walking across the moor on 
his ordinary business, it is probable that he might 
have been alarmed for his own safety ; nay, that, 
in spite of all his strength and agility, he might 
have sunk down beneath the inclemency of the 
night and perished. But now the passion of his 
soul carried him with supernatural strength along, 
and extricated him from wreath and pitfall. Still 
there was no trace of poor Hannah Lee — and (me 
of his dogs at last came close to his feet, worn out 
entirely, and afraid to leave its master — while the 
other was mute, and, as the shepherd thought, pro- 
bably unable to force its way out of some hollow 
or through some floundering drift. Then he all 
at once knew that Hannah Lee was dead — and 
dashed himself down in the snow in a fit of pas- 
lion. It was the first time that the youth had ever 


THE SXOW-STORM. 


103 


lieeii sorely tried, — nil his hidden and unconscious 
love for the fair lost girl had flowed up from the 
bottom of his heart, — and at once the sole object 
which had blest his life and made him the happiest 
of the happy, was taken away and cruelly de- 
stroyed — so that sullen, wrathful, baffled, and de- 
spairing, there he lay, cursing his existence, and 
in too great agony to think of prayer. “God,’’ 
he then thought, “ has forsaken me, and why 
should he think on me, when he suffers one se 
good and beautiful as Hannah to be frozen to 
death ?” God thought both of him and Hannah — 
and through his inflnite mercy forgave the sinner 
in his wild turbulence of passion. William Grieve 
had never gone to bed without joining in prayer — 
and he revered the Sabbath-day and kept it holy. 
Much is forgiven to the human heart by him who 
so fearfully framed it ; and God is not slow to 
pardon the love which one human being bears to 
another, in his frailty — even though that love for- 
get or arraign his own unsleeping providence. 
His voice has told us to love one another — and 
William loved Hannah in simplicity, innocence, 
and truth. That she should perish was a thought 
so dreadful, that, in its agony, God seemed a ruth- 
less being — “ Blow — blow — blow, and drift us up 
for ever — we cannot be far asunder. O, Hannah — 
Hannah ! — think ye not that the fearful God has 
forsaken us T’ 

As the boy groaned these words passionately 
through his quivering lips, there was a sudden low- 
ness in the air, and he heard the barking of his 
absent dog, while the one at his feet hurried off in 
the direction of the sound, and soon loudly joined 
the cry. It was not a bark of surprise, or anger, 
or fear, but of recognition and love. M illiam 
sprang tip from his bed in the snow, and with hii 


104 


THE SXOW-STORM 


heart knocking at his bosom even to sickness, ht 
rushed headlong through the drifts, witli a giant’s 
strength, and fell down half dead with joy and 
terror beside the body of Hannah Lee. 

But he soon recovered from that fit, and lifting 
the cold corpse in his arms, he kissed her hpo, and 
her cheeks, and her forehead, and her closed eyes, 
till, as he kept gazing on her face in utter despair, 
her head fell back on his shoulder, and a long, 
deep sigh, came from her inmost bosom. “ She 
is yet alive, thank God !” — and as that expression 
left his lips for the first time that night, he felt a 
pang of remorse : “ I said, O God, that thou 
liadst forsaken us ; I am not worthy to be saved ; 
hut let not this maiden perish, for the sake of iier 
parents, who have no other child.” The distract- 
ed youth prayed to God with the same earnestness 
as if he had been beseeching a fellow-creature, in 
whose hand was the power of life and of death. 
The presence of the Great Being was felt by him 
in the dark and howling wild, and strength was' 
imparted to him as to a deliverer. He bore along 
the fair child in his arms, even as if she had been 
a lamb. Tlie snow-drift blew not — the wind fell 
dead — a sort of glimmer, like that of an upbreak- 
ing and disparting storm, gathered about him — his 
dogs barked and jumped, and burrowed joyfully 
in the snow — and the youth, strong in sudden hope, 
exclaimed, “ With the blessing of God, who has 
not deserted us in our sore distress, will I carr}' 
thee, Hannah, in iny arms, and lay thee down 
alive in the house of thy father.” At this moment 
there were no stars in heaven, but she opened hei 
dim blue eyes upon him in whose bosom she waa 
unconsciously lying, and said, as in a dream— 
“ Send the riband that ties up my hair, as a keep 
«ake to William Grieve.” She thinks that sIm 



“ Her head fell back on his shoulder, and a long deep sigh came from 
her inmost bosom." 


Lights and Shadows. 


Page 104. 





THE SNOW-STORM. 


ir.i6 

is Oil her deatli-bed, and forgets not the son of her 
master. It is the voice of God that tells me she 
will not now die, and that, under His - grace, 1 
shall be her deliverer.” 

The short-lived rage of the storm was soon over, 
and William could attend to the beloved being on 
his bosom. The warmth of his heart seemed to 
infuse life into hers ; and as he gently placed hei 
feet on the snow, till he muffled her up in his 
plaid, as well as in her own, she made an effort tc 
stand, and with extreme perplexity and bewilder- 
ment, faintly inquired, where she was, and what 
fearful misfortune had befallen them? She was, 
however, too weak to walk ; and as her young 
master carried her along, she murmured, “ O, Wil- 
liam ! what if my father be in the moor? — For if 
you, who need care so little about me, have come 
hither, as I suppose, to save my life, you may be 
sure that my father sat not within doors during the 
storm.” As she spoke it was calm below, but the 
wind was still alive in the upper air, and cloud, 
rack, mist, and sleet, were all driving about in the 
sky. Out shone for a moment the pallid and 
ghostly moon, through a rent in the gloom, and 
by that uncertain light came staggering forward 
the figure of a man: “Father, father,” cried 
Hannah, and his gray hairs were already on her 
check. The barking of die dogs and the shouting 
of the young shepherd had struck his ear, as the 
sleep of death was stealing over him, and with the 
last rftbrt of benumbed nature, he had roused 
himself from that fatal torpor, and pressed 
through the snow-wreath that had separated him 
from his child. As yet they knew not of the dan 
ger each had endured ; but each judged of thf 
other’s suffering from their own, and father and 


1C5 


THE SNOW-STORM. 


daughter regarded one another as creatures ret 
cued, and hardly yet rescued, from deatli. 

Ilut a few minutes ago, and the tliree human 
beings wlio loved eacli other so well, and now 
feared not to cross the moor in safety, were, a# 
they thought, on their death-beds. • Deliverance' 
now shone upon them all like a gentle fire, dispel 
ling that pleasant but deadly drowsiness ; and the 
old man was soon able to assist William Grieve 
in leading Hannah along through the snow. Kei 
colour and her warmth returned, and her lover — 
for so might he well now be called — felt her heart 
gently beating against his side. Filled as that 
heart was with gratitude to God, joy in her deliv- 
erance, love to her father, and purest aftection for 
her master’s son, never before had the innocent 
maiden known what was happiness, and never 
more was she to forget it. The nioht was now al- 
most calm, and fast returning to its former beauty, 
when the party saw the first twinkle of the fire 
through the low window of the Cottage of the 
Moor. They soon were at the garden gate — and 
to relieve the heart of the wife anil mother within, 
they talked loudly and cheerfully, naming each 
other familiarly, and laughing between, like ])er- 
sons who had known neither danger nor distress. 

No voice answered from within, no footstep 
came to the door, which stood open as when the 
father had left it in his fear; and now he thought 
with afiright that his wife, feeble as she was, had 
been unable to support the loneliness, and had 
followed him out into the night, never to be 
brought home alive. As they bore Hannah into 
the house, this fear gave way to worse, for there 
upon the hard clay floor lay the mother upon hei 
face, as if murdered by some savage blow. She 
was in the same deadly swoon into which she hud 


THE SNOW-STORM. 


107 


fullea on her husband’s departure three hours be« 
fore. The old mun raised her up, and her pulse 
was still — so was her heart ; her face pale and 
sunken, and her body cold as ice. “ 1 have re- 
covered a daughter,” said the old man, “but I. 
have lost a wife and he carried her, with a groan 
to the bed, on which he laid ner lifeless body 
The sight was too much for Hannah, worn out as 
she was, and who had hitherto been able to support 
herself in the delightful expectation of gladdening 
her mother’s heart by her safe arrival. She, too, 
now swooned away, and as she was 'placed on the 
bed, beside her mother, it seemed 'indeed, that 
death, disappointed of his prey on the wild moor, 
had seized it in the cottage, and by the fire-side. 
'J'he husband knelt down by the bed-side, and held 
his wife’s icy hand in his, while 'William Grieve, 
appalled and awe-stricken, hung over bis Hannah, 
and inwardly implored God that the night’s wild 
adventure might not have so ghastly an end. But 
Hannah’s young heart soon began once more to 
beat; and soon as she came to her recollection, 
she rose np with a face whiter than ashes, and 
free from all smiles, as if none had ever |)layed 
there, and joined her father and young master in 
their efforts to restore her mother to life. 

It was the mercy of God that had struck her 
down to the earth, insensible to the shrieking 
winds, »*nd the fears that would otherwise have 
killed her. Three hours of that wild storm had 
passed over her hetid, and she heard nothing more 
than if she had been asleep in a breathless night 
of the summer dew. Not even a dream had 
touched her brain, and wieii she opened her eyes 
which, as she thought, had been but a moment 
shut, she had scarcely time to recall to her recol- 
lection the image of her husband rushing out intc 


106 


THE SNOW-STORM. 


the storm and of a daugliter tlicrein K st, till shf 
beheld that veiy husband kneeling tenderly by bet 
bed-side, and that very daughter smoothing the 
pillow on which her aching temples reclined. But 
she knew from the white, steadfast countenances 
before her that there had been tribulation and lf>> 
liverance, and she looked on the beloved beings 
ministering by her bed, as more fearfully deal to 
her from the unimagined danger from which she 
felt assured they had been rescued by the arm of 
the Almighty. 

There is little need to speak of returning recoN 
lection, and- returning strength. They had all 
now power to weep, and power to pray. The 
Bible had been lying in its place ready for worship 
— and the father read aloud that chapter in whicii 
is narrated our Saviour’s act of miraculous power, 
by which he saved Peter from the sea. Soon as 
the solemn thoughts awakened by that act of mercy 
so similar to that which had rescued themselves 
from death had subsided, and they had all risen 
uj) from prayer, they gathered themselves in grati- 
tude round the little table which had stood so 
many hours spread — and exhausted nature was 
strengthened and restored by a frugal and simple 
meal partaken of in silent thankfulness. The 
whole story of the night was then recited — and 
when the mother heard how the stripling had fol 
lowed her sweet Hannah into the storm, and borne 
her in his arms through a hundred drifted heaps — 
und tlien looked upon her in her pride, so young, 
so innocent, and so beautiful, she knew, that were 
the child indeed to become an orphan, there was 
one, wlio, if there was either trust in nature, or 
truth in religion, would guard and cherish her all 
Uie days of her life. 

It was not nine o’clock when the storm cam# 


THE SNOW-STOBSi. 


loe • 


iluii’ii’from Ghiii Scrae upon tne Black-moss, and 
now in a p luse of silence the ciocx struck twelve 
Within tliese three hours William and Hannah 
had led a life of trouble and of joy, that had en- 
larged and kindled their hearts within them — and 
ihe)^^ felt that henceforth they Avere to live wholly 
for each other’s sakes. His love was the pr- ud 
and exulting love of a deliverer who, under Prcvi- 
dence, had saved from the frost and the snow, the 
innocence and the beauty of which his young pas- 
sionate heart had been so dcsjterately enamoured 
— and he now thought of his own Hannah Lee 
ever more moving about his father’s house, not as 
a servant, but as a daughter ; and when some fcAV 
haj)py years had gone by, his OAvn most beautiful 
and most loving wife. The innocent maiden still 
called him her young master, but was not ashamed 
of the holy affection which she now knew that she 
had long felt for the fearless youth on whose bosom 
she had thought herself dying in that cold and 
miserable moor. .Her heart leaped within her 
when she heard her |:arents bless him by his name 
— and when he took her hand into his before them, 
and vowed before that Power Avho had that night 
saved thejn from the snow, that Hannah Lee 
should ere long be his Avedded Avifc — she Avept and 
sobbed as if her heart Avould break in a lit of strange 
and insup|)ortable happiness. 

The young shepherd rose to bid them fareAvell ; — 
“ My father Avill think I am lost, said he, with a 
grave smile, “ and my Hannah’s mother knoAVS 
what it is to fear for a child.” So nothing Avas 
said to detain him, and the family AAent Avitli him 
to the door. The skies smiled as serenely ns if 
a storm had never swept before the stars; the 
moon Avas sinking from her meridian, but in cloud- 
ess splendour, and the hollow ol the hills was 


• 10 


THU elder’s death-bed. 


hushed as that of heaven. Danger there was nona 
over the placid night-scene; the Imppy youth soon 
crossed the Black-moss, now perfectly still — and, 
perhaps, just as he was passing, with a shudder of 
gratitude, the very spot where his sweet Hannah 
Lee had so nearly perished, she was lying down 
to sleep in her innocence, or dreaming of one now 
dearer to her than all on earth but her parents 


THE ELDER’S DEATH-BED. 

It was on a fierce and howling winter day, that 
I was crossing the dreary moor of Auchindown, 
on my way to the Manse of that parish, a solitary 
pedestrian. The snow, which had been inces- 
santly falling for a week past, was drifted into 
beautiful but dangerous wreaths, far and wide over 
the melancholy expanse, and the scene kept visi- 
bly shifting before me, as the strong wind that 
blew from every point of the compass struck the 
lazzling masses, and heaved them up and down 
in endless transformation. There was something 
inspiriting in the labour with which, in the buoyant 
strength of youth, 1 forced my way through the 
storm ; and I could not but enjoy those gleamings 
:>f sun-light that ever and anon burst through some 
unexpected opening in the sky, and gave a char- 
acter of cheerfulness, and even warmth, to the 
sides or summits of the stricken hills. Sometimes 
the wind stopped of a sudden, and then the air 
tvas as silent as the snow, not a murmur to bs 
heard from spring or stream, now all frozen up 
over those high moor-lands. As the momentary 


THE ELDER S lfEATH-RED 


lit 


cessations of the sharp drift allowed my eyes tc 
look onwards and around, I saw here and there 
up the little opening valleys, cottages just visible 
beneath the black stems of their snow-covered 
clumps of trees, or beside some small sj)ot of green 
pasturage kept open for the sheep. These inti- 
mations of life and happiness came delightfully to 
me in the midst of the desolation; and the barking 
of a dog, attending some shepherd in his quest on 
the hill, put fresh vigour into my limbs, telling me 
that, lonely as I seemed to be, I was surrounded 
by cheerful though unseen com|)any, and that I 
was not the only Avanderer over the snows. 

As I walked along, my mind Avas insensibly fill- 
ed with a croAvd of pleasant images of rural win- 
ter-life, that helped me gladly oinvards over many 
miles of moor. I thought of the severe but cheer- 
ful labours of the barn, the mending of farm-gear 
by the fireside ; the Avheel turned by the foot of 
old age, less for gain than as a thrifty jiastime ; 
the skilful mother, making “auld claes look amaist 
as weel’s the neAV,” — the ballad unconsciously lis- 
tened to by the family all busy at their own tasks 
round the singing maiden ; the old traditionary 
tale told by some Avayfarer hospitably housed till 
the storm should bloAv by ; the unexpected visit of 
neighbours on need or friendship, or the footstep 
of lover undeterred by snow-drifts that have buried 
up his flocks ; — but, above all, I thought of those 
hours of religious Avorshij) that have not yet escaped 
from the domestic life of the peasantry of Scotland ; 
of the sound of psalms that the depth of stmw can- 
not deaden to the ear of Him to Avhom they are 
chanted, and of that sublime Sabbath-keeping, 
which, on days* too tempestuous for the kirk, 
changes the cottage of the shepherd into the tein 
pie of God. 




112 THE Ei.DER’s death-bed. 

With such glad and peaceful images in my 
heart, I travelled along that dreary moor, with the 
cutting wind in my face, and my feet sinking in 
the snow, or sliding on the hard blue ice beneath 
it, as cheerfully as I ever walked on the deAV_> 
warmth of a summer morning, through fields of 
fragrance and of flowers. And now I could dis- 
cern, within half an hour’s walk, before me, the 
spire of the church, close to which stood the Manse 
of my aged friend and benefactor. My heart 
burned within me as a sudden gleam of stormy 
sun-shine tipt it with fire ; and I felt, at that mo- 
ment, an inexpressible sens(! of the sublimity of 
the character of that gray-headed shepherd, who 
had, for fifty years, abode in the wilderness, keep- 
ing together his OAvn happy little flock. 

As I was ascending a knoll, I saw before me on 
horseback an old man, with his long white hairs 
beating against his face, who nevertheless advanced 
with a calm countenance against the hurricane. 
It Avas no other than my father, of whom I had 
been thinking ; for my father had I called him for 
many years ; and for many years my father had 
he truly been. My surprise at meeting him on 
suck a moor, on such a day, Avas but momentary, 
for I kncAV that he Avas a shepherd Avho cared not 
for the Avinter’s Avrath. As he stopped to take my 
hand kindly into his, and to give his blessing to 
his long-expected visitor, the Avind fell calm ; the 
whole face of the sky was softened, and brightness, 
like a smile, AA^ent over the blushing and crimsoned 
snow. The very elements seemed then to respect 
the hoary head of four-score ; and after our first 
greeting Avas over, Avhen I looked around, in n»y 
affection, I felt how beautiful was Avinter. 

“ 1 am going,” said he, “ to visit a man at tke 
point of death ; a man Avhora you cannot hav*> 


THE elder’s death- bed. ]]3 

forgotten — whose head will be missed in the kirk 
next Sabbath by all my congregation, a devout 
man, who feared God all his days, and whom, or 
this awful trial, God will assuredly remember. 1 
a.n going, my son, to the Hazel-Glen.” 

1 knew well in childhood that lonely farm-house 
«o far off among the beautiful wild green hills — 
and it was not likely that I had forgotten the name 
of its possessor. For six years’ Sabbaths I had 
seen the Elder in his accustomed place beneath 
the pulpit ; and with a sort of solemn fear, had 
looked on his steadfast countenance during sermon, 
psalm, and prayer. On returning to the scenes 
of my infiincy, I now met the pastor going to pray 
by his death-bed, and with the privilege which na- 
ture gives us to behold, even in their last extremity, 
the loving and the beloved, I turned to accompany 
him to the house of sorrow, resignation, and death. 

And now, for the first time, I observed, walking 
close to the feet of his horse, a little boy of about 
ten years of age, who kept frequently looking up 
in the pastor’s face, with his blue eyes bathed in 
tears. A changeful expression of grief, hope, and 
despair, made almost pale, cheeks that otherwise 
were blooming in health and beauty ; and I re- 
cognized, in the small features and smooth fore- 
head of childhood, a resemblance to the aged man 
whom we understood was now lying on his death 
bed. “ They had to send his grandson for mo 
through the snow, mere child as he is,” said the 
minister to me, looking tenderly on the boy; “but 
love makes the young heart bold ; and there is 
One wlio tempers the wind to the shorn lamb.” 
1 again looked on the fearless child with his rosy 
cheeks, blue eyes, and yellow h.air, so unlike gri(;f 
or sorrow, yet now sobbing aloud as if his heart 
would break. “ ] do not fear but that my grand 
in* 


114 


THE El.DER^S DEATH-BEH 


fatlier will yet recover, soon as the minister La? 
said one single prayer by his bed-side. I had nr 
hope or little, as I was running by myself to the 
Manse over hill after hill, but I am full of hopes 
now that we are together; and oh ! if God snfters 
my grandfather to recover, I will lie awake all the 
long winter nights blessing him for his mercy. 1 
will rise up in the middle of the darkness, and pray 
to him in the cold on my naked knees 1” and here 
his voice was choked, while he kept his eyes fixed, 
as if for consolation and encouragement, on the 
solemn and pitying comitenance of the kind-heart- 
ed pious old man. 

AVe soon left the main road, and struck off 
through scenery, that, covered as it was with the 
bewildering snow, I sometimes dimly and some 
times vividly remembered ; our little guide keeping 
ever a short distance before us, and with a sagacity 
like that of instinct, showing us our course, of 
which no trace was visible, save occasionally his 
•)wn little foot-prints as he bad beei. hurrying to 
the Manse. 

After crossing, for several miles, morass, and 
frozen rivulet, and drifted hollow, with here and 
there the top of a stone-wall ])eeping through the 
snow, or the more visible circle of a slteep-bught, 
we descended into the Hazel-Glen, and saw be- 
fore us the solitary house of the dying Ei.deu. 

A gleam of days gone by came suddenly over 
my soul. The last time that I had been in this 
glen was on a day of June, fifteen years before, a 
holiday, the birth-day of the king. A troop of 
laughing schoolboys, headed by our benign pastor, 
we danced over the sunny braes, and startled the 
linnets from their nests among the yellow broom. 
Austere as seemed to us the Elder’s Sabbath 
face, when sitting in thj kirk, we schoolboys knew 


THE elder’s death-bed. 


116 


that it had its week-day smiles ; and we flew or 
the wings of joy to our annual festival of curds 
and cream in the farm-house of that little sylvan 
world. We rejoiced in the flowers and the leaves 
of that long, that interminable summer-day ; its 
memory was with our boyish hearts from .Tune to 
June ; and the sound of that sweet name, “Haziei- 
Glen,” often came upon us at our tasks, and 
brought too bright-’y into the school-room the pas- 
toral imagery of that mirthful solitude. 

As we now slowly approached the cottage, 
through a deep snow-drift, Avhich the distress with- 
in had prevented the household from removing. M e 
saw, peeping out from the door, brothers and sis- 
ters of our little guide, Avho quickly disappeared ; 
and then their mother showed herself in their stead, 
expressing, by her raised eyes and .arms folded 
across her breast, how thankful she was to see, at 
last, the pastor, beloved in joy and trusted in 
trouble; 

Soon as the venerable old man dismounted from 
his horse, our active little guide led it away into 
the humble stable, and we entered the cottage. 
Not a sound Avas heard but the ticking of the 
clock. The matron, who had silently welcomed 
us at the door, led us, Avith suppressed sighs and a 
face stained Avith Aveeping, into her father’s sick 
room, Avhich even in that time of sore distress Avas 
as orderly as if health had blessed the house. I 
could not help remarking some old china orn.a- 
ments on the chimney-piece ; and in the AvindoAV 
Avas an ever-bloAving rose-tree, that almost touch- 
ed the loAvly roof, and brightened that end of the 
sipartment Avith its blossoms. There Avas some- 
thing Wasteful in the simple furniture ; and it seem 
ed as if grief could not deprive the hand of that 
matron of its careful elegance. Sickness, ahnos^ 


lie THE elder’s death-bed. 

hopeless sickness, lay there, surrounded with the 
same clieeiful and beautiful objects which health 
had loved ; and she, who had arranged and adorn- 
ed the apartment in her happiness, still kept it 
from disorder and decay in her sorrow. 

With a gentle hand she drew the curtain of the 
bed, and there, supported by pillows as white as 
the snow that lay without, reposed the dying 
Elder. It was plain that the hand of God was 
upon him, and that his days on the earth were 
numbered. 

He greeted his minister with a faint smile, and 
a slight iticlination of the head, for his daughter 
had so raised him on the pillows, that he was al- 
most sitting up in his bed. It was easy to see that 
he knew himself to be dying, and that his soul 
was prepared for the great change ; yet, along 
with the solemn resignation of a Christian, 'jkiio 
had made his peace with God and his Saviour, 
there was blended on his white and sunken coun- 
tenance an expression of habitual reverence for 
'Jie minister of his faith ; and I saw that he could 
not have died in peace without that comforter to 
pray by his death-bed. 

A few words sufficed to tell who was the stran 
ger, and the dying man, blessing me by name, 
held out to me his cold, shrivelled hand in token 
of recognition. I took my seat at a small dis- 
tance from the bed-side, and left a closer station 
for those who were more dear. The pastor sat 
down near his head; and by the bed, leaning on it 
with gentle hands, stood that matron, his daughter- 
in-law ; a figure that would have graced and 
sainted a higher dwelling, and whose native beauty 
was now more touching in its grief. But religion 
upheld her whom nature was bowing down ; not 
now for the first time, were the lessons taught by 


THE elder’s death-bed. 11 ? 

■\ei lather to be put into practice, for I saw that 
she was clothed in deep mourning ; and she be- 
haved like the daughter of a man whose life had 
not been only irreproachable, but lofty, with fear 
and hope lighting desperately but silently in the 
core of her pure and pious heart. 

While we thus remained in silence, the beauti- 
ful boy, who, at the -risk of his life, hud brought 
the minister of religion to the bed-side of his be- 
loved grandfather, softly and cautiously opened 
the door, and, with the hoar-frost yet unmelted on 
his bright glistening ringlets, walked up to the pil- 
low, evidently no stranger there. He no longer 
sobbed — he no longer wept — for hope had risen 
strongly within his innocent heart, from the con- 
sciousness of love so fearlessly exerted, and ffor' 
the presence of the holy man in whose prayers he 
trusted, as in the intercession of some superior 
and heavenly nature. There he stood, still as an 
image in his grandfather’s eyes, that,' in their dim- 
ness, fell upon him with delight. Yet, happy as 
was the trusting child, his heart was devoured by 
fear, and he looked as if one word might stir up 
the flood of tears that had subsided in his heart. 
As he crossed the dreary and dismal moors, he 
had thought of a corpse, a shroud, and a grave. 
He had been in terror, lest death should strike in 
his absence the old man, with whose gray hairs he 
had so often played ; but now he saw Inm alive, 
and felt that death was not able to tear him away 
from the clasps, and links, and fetters of his grand- 
child’s embracing love. 

“ If the storm do not abate,” said the sick man, 
after a pause, “ it wall be hard for my friends to 
carry me over the drifts to the kirk-yard.” This 
sud(len approach to the grave, struck, as with a bar 
of ice, the heart of the loving boy • and, with a 


ns THE eider’s death-bed. 

long and deep sigh, he fell down with his fac« 
like ashes on the bed, Avhile the old man’s palsied 
right hand had just strength enougii to lay itsell’ 
upon his head. “ Blessed be thou, my little Ja 
niie, even for his own name’s sake who died fo; 
us on the tree !” The mother, without terror, bu 
vdth an averted face, lifted up her loving-heartec 
boy, now in a dead fainting fit, and carried him 
into an adjoining room, where he soon revived . 
but that child and that old man were not to be se- 
parated. In vain was he asked to go to his bro- 
thers and sisters ; — pale, breathless, and shivering, 
he took his place as before, with eyes fixed on his 
grandfather’s face, but neither weeping nor uttering 
a word. Terror had frozen up the blood of his 
heart ; but his were now the only dry eyes in the 
room ; and the pastor himself wept, albeit the 
grief of fourscore is seldom vented in tears. 

“God has been gracious to me, a sinner,” said 
the dying man. “ During thirty years that I have 
been an Elder in your kirk, never have I missed 
sitting there one Sabbath. When the mother of 
ray children was taken from me — it was on a 
Tuesday she died — and on Saturday she was 
buried. We stood together when my Alice was 
let down into the narrow house made for all liv- 
ing. On the Sabbath I joined in the public wor- 
ship of God — she commanded me to do so the 
night before she went away. I could not join in 
the psalm that Sabbath, for her voice was not in 
the throng. Her grave was covered up, and grass 
and flowers grew there ; so was my heart ; but 
thou, whom, through the blood of Christ, I hope 
to see this night in paradise, knowest, that from 
that hour to this day never have I forgotten thee !” 

The old man ceased speaking, and his grand- 
riiUd, now able to endure the scene — for strong 


THE elder’s death-bed. ]]9 

passion is its own support — glided softly to a littk 
tablet bringing a cup in which a cordial had 
been mixed, held it in his small soft hands to his 
grandfather’s lips. He drank, and then said— . 
“ Come closer to me, Jamie, and kiss me for thine 
own and thy father’s sake ; and as the child fond- 
ly piessed his rosy lips on those of his grandfa- 
ther, so white and withered, the tears fell over al . 
the old man’s face, and then trickled down on the 
golden head of the child at last sobbing in his 
bosom. 

“ Jamie, thy own father has forgotten thee in 
thy infancy, and me in my old age ; but, Jamie, 
forget not thou thy father nor thy mother, for that 
thou knowest and feelest is the commandment of 
God.” 

The broken-hearted boy could give no reply. 
He had gradually stolen closer and closer unto the 
loving old man, and now was lying, worn out 
with sorrow, drenched and dissolved in tears, in 
his grandfather’s bosom. His mother had sunk 
down on her knees, and hid her face with her 
hands. “ Oh ! if my husband knew but of this, 
he would never, never desert his dying father !” — 
and I now knew that the Elder was praying on his 
death-bed for a disobedient and wicked son. 

At this affecting time the minister took the fami- 
ly Bible on his knees, and said, “ Let us sing to 
the praise and glory of God, part of the fifteenth 
Psalm,” and he read, with a tremulous and broken 
voice, those beautiful verses : 

Within thy tabernacle, Lord, 

Who shall abide widi thee? 

And in ihy hi<ih and holy hill 
Who shall a dweller be ? 

The man that walketh uprightly. 

And worketh righteousness, 

And as he thinketh in his heart. 

So doth he truth expresE. 


.20 


THE elder’s death-bed. 


The small congregation sung the nchle hymn 
of the Psalmist to “Plaintive martyrs, worthy of 
the name.” The dying man himself, ever and 
anon, joined in the holy music ; and when it feebly 
died away on his quivering lips, he continued still 
o follow the tune with the motion of his withered 
hand, and eyes devoutly and humbly lifted up to 
heaven. JNor was the sweet voice of his loving 
grandchild unheard; as if the strong fit of deadly 
passion had dissolved in the music, he sang with a 
sweet and silvery voice that to a passer-by had 
seemed that of perfect happiness — a hymn sung 
in joy upon its knees in gladsome childhood 
before it flew out among the green hills, to quiet 
labour or gleesome play. As that sweetest voice 
came from the bosom of the old man, where the 
singer lay in affection, and blended with his own 
so tremulous, never had I felt so affectingly brought 
before me the bemnninjf and the end of life — the 
cradle and the grave. 

Ere the psalm was yet over, the door was open- 
ed, and a tall, fine-looking man entered, but with 
a lowering and dark countenance, seemingly in 
sorrow, in misery, and’ remorse. Agitated, con- 
founded, and awe-struck by the melancholy and 
dirge-like music, he sat down on a chair, and look- 
ed with a ghastly face towards his father’s death- 
bed. When the psalm ceased, the Elder said, 
with a solemn voice, “ My son — thou art come in 
time to receive thy father’s blessing. May the le* 
membrance of what will happen in this room, be- 
fore the morning again shines over the Hazel- 
Glen, win thee from the en or of thy ways. Thou 
art here to witness the mercy of thy God and thy 
Saviour, whom thou hast forgotten.’ 

The minister looked, if not with a stern, yet 
with an upbraiding countenance, on the young 


THE elder’s death-bed. 


121 


man, who had not recovered his speecli, and said, 
* William ! for three years past your shadow has 
not darkened the door of the house of God. They 
who fear not the thunder, may tremble at the still 
iinall voice — now is the hour for repentance — that 
your father’s spirit may carry up to heaven tidings 
•)f a contrite soul saved from the company of 
sinners !” 

The young man, with much effort, advanced to 
the bed-side, and at last found voice to say, “ Fa- 
ther, I am not without the affections of nature, and 
I hurried home soon as I had heard that the min- 
ister had been seen riding towards our house. I 
hope that you will yet recover; and, if ever I have 
made you unhappy, I ask your forgiveness ; for 
though I may not think as you do on matters of 
religion, I have a human heart. Father, I may 
have been unkind, but I am not cruel. I ask your 
forgiveness 

“ Come nearer to me, William ; kneel down 
by the bed-side, and let my hand find the head of 
my beloved son — for blindness is coming fast upon 
me. Thou wert my first-born, and thou art my 
only living son. All thy brothers and sisters are 
lying in the church-yard, beside her whose sweet 
face thine own, William, did once so much resem- 
ble. Long wert thou the joy, the i)ride of my 
soul — ay, too nnich the pride ; for there was not 
in all the parish such a man, such a son, as my 
own William. If thy heart has since been 
changed, God may inspire it again with right 
thoughts. Could I die for thy sake — could I pur- 
chase thy salvation with the outpouring of thy fa- 
ther’s blood — but this the Son of God has done 
fOi‘ tliee, who hast denied him ! I have sorely 
wept for thee — ay, William, wlu.n ‘here was none 


122 THE elder’s death-bbd. 

near me — even as David wept for Absalom — for 
thee, rny son, my son !” 

A long deep groan was the only reply ; but the 
whole body of the kneeling man wa«i convulsed ; 
and it was easy to see his sufferings, his contrition, 
his remorse, and his despair. The pastor said, 
with a sterner voice and austerer countenance than 
svere natural to him, “ Know you whose hand is 
now lying on your rebellious head 1 But what 
signifies the word father to him who has denied 
God, the Father of us all I” “ Oh ! press him not 
so hardly,” said the weeping wife, coming forward 
from a dark corner of the room, where slie had 
tried to conceal herself in grief, fear, and shame ; 
“ Spare, oh spare my husband — he has ever been 
kind to me and with that she knelt down beside 
him, with her long, soft, white arms, mournfully 
and affectionately laid across his neck. “ Go 
thou, likewise, my sweet little Jamie,” said the 
Elder, “ go even out of my bosom, and kneel 
down beside thy father and thy mother, so that I 
may bless you all at once, and with one yearning 
prayer.” The child did as that solemn voice 
commanded, and knelt down somewhat timidly by 
his father’s side ; nor did that unhappy man de- 
cline encircling with his arm the child too much 
neglected, but still dear to him as his own blood, 
in spite of the deadening and debasing influence 
of infidelity. 

“ Put the Word of God into the hands of my 
son, and let him read aloud to his dying father the 
sJotli, 2Gth, and 27th verses of the eleventh chapter 
of the Gospel according to St. John.” The pas 
tor went up to the kneelers, and with a voice of 
pity, condolence, and pardon, said, “There was 
a time w hen Jione, William, could read the Scrip- 
tures better than cuuldest thou, — can it be that the 


THE elder’s DE^TH-BED. 


123 


son of niy friend hath forgotten the lessons of his 
youth 1 ” He had not forgotten them — there was 
no need forthe repentant sinner to lift his eyes from 
the bed-side. The sacred stream of the Gospe 
had worn a channel in his heart, and the waters 
were again flowing. With a choked voice he 
said, “ Jesus said unto her, I am the resurrection 
u^d the life ; he that believeth in me, though he 
were dead, yet shall he live: And whosoever liv- 
eth, and believeth in me, shall never die. Believ- 
est thou this? She saith unto him. Yea, Lord: I 
believe that thou art the Christ, the Son of God, 
which should come into the world.” 

“ That is not an unbeliever’s voice,” said the 
dying man, triumphantly; “nor, William, hast 
thou an unbeliever’s heart. Say that thou believ- 
est in what thou hast now read, and thy father will 
die happy !” “I do believe ; and as thou forgivest 
me, so may I be forgiven by my Father who is in 
heaven.” 

The Elder seemed like a man suddenly inspired 
with a new life. His faded eyes kindled — his pale 
cheeks glowed — his palsied hands seemed to wax 
strong — and his voice was clear as that of man- 
hood in his prime. “ Into thy hands, oh God, I 
commit my spirit :” and so saying, he gently sunk 
back on his pillow ; and I thought I heard a sigh. 
There was tlien a* long deep silence, and the fa- 
ther, and mother, and child, rose from their knees. 
The eyes of us all were turned towards the white 
placid face of the figure now stretched in everlast 
ing rest ; and without lamentations, save the silent 
lamentations of the resigned soul, we stood around 

niE DEATH-DED OF THE ElDEU. 


124 


THE elder’s funeral. 


'rilE ELDER’S FUNERAL. 

How beautiful to the eye and to the heart riso 
up, in a p storal region, the green silent hills from 
the dissolving snow-wreaths that yet linger at their 
feet! A few warm, sunny days, and a few 
breezy and melting nights, have seemed to create 
the sweet season of spring out of the winter’:.- 
bleakest desolation. We can scarcely believe thai 
such brightness of verdure could have been 
shrouded in the snow, blending itself, as it now 
does, so vividly with the deep blue of heaven. With 
the revival of nature our own souls feel restored. 
Hap, vness becomes milder — meeker — and richer 
in pensive thought ; while sorrow catches a faint 
tinge of joy, and reposes itself on the (juietness of 
earth’s o})ening breast. Then is youth rejoicing; 
maidiood sedate ; and old age resigned. The 
child shakes his golden curls in his glee — he of 
rii)er life hails the coming year with tem,)erate ex- 
ultation, and the eye that has been touched with 
dimness, in the general spirit of delight, forgets or 
fears not the shadows of the grave. 

On such a vernal day as this did w-e, who liad 
visited the elder on his death-bed, walk together to 
his house in the Hazel-Glen, ‘to accompany his 
body to the jilace of burial. On the night he died 
it seemed to be the dead of winter. On the day he 
was buried it seemed to be the birth of s|)ring. 
The old pastor and I were alone for a while as 
we ,:ursued our path up the glen, by the banks of 
the little burn. It had cleared itself off from the 
melted snow, and ran so ,)ellucid a race, that 
every stone and pebble was visible in its yellow 
channel. The willcws, the alders, and the birch 


THE elder's funeral. 


12£ 


cs, the fairest and the eariiest if cur :>::*jFe liiL 
trees, seemed almost ting-ed witJ* a verdant lights 
Hs if tliey were budding; and beneath them, here 
and there, peeped out, as in the pleasure of new 
existence, the primrose, lonely, or in little families 
and flocks. The bee nad not yet ventured to 
leave his cell, yet the flowers reminded one of his 
murmur. A few insects were dancing in the air, 
and here and there some little moor-land bird, 
touched at the heart with the warm sunny change, 
was piping his love-sweet song among the braes. 
It was just such a day as a grave, meditative man, 
like him we were about to inter, would have cho- 
sen to walk over his farm, in religious content- 
ment with his lot. That was the thought that en- 
tered the pastor’s heart, as we paused to enjoy one 
brighter gleam of the sun in a little meadow-field 
of peculiar beauty. 

“ This is the last day of the week — and on that 
day often did the Elder walk through this little 
happy kingdom ofhis own, with some of his grand- 
children beside and around him, and often his 
Bible in his hand. It is, you feel, a solitary place 
— all the vale is one seclusion — and often have its 
quiet bounds been a place of undisturbed medita- 
tion and prayer.” 

We now came in sight of the cottage, and be- 
yond it the termination of the glen. There the 
liigh hills came sloping gently down ; and a little 
waterfall, in the distance, gave animation to a 
scene of perfect repose. We were now joined by 
various small parties coming to the funeral through 
openings among the hills ; all sedate, but none 
sad, and every greeting was that of kindness and 
peace. The Elder had died full of years ; and 
there was no need why any out of his own house- 
hold should weep. A long life of piety had bee* 


126 


THE elder’s FLNERAL 


beautifully closed ; and, therefore, we were all 
going to commk the body to the earth, assured, as 
far as human beings may be so assured, that ttie 
soul was in heaven. As the party increased on 
our approach to the house, there was even cheer- 
fulness among us. We spoke of the early and 
bright promise of spring — of the sorrows and the 
joys of other families — of marriages and births — • 
of the new school-master — of to-morrow’s Sabbath. 
There was no topic of ^^hich on any common oc- 
casion, it might have been fitting to speak, that did 
not now perliaps occupy for a few moments, some 
one or other of the group, till we found ourselves 
ascending the green sward before the cottage, and 
stood below the bare branches of the sycamores. 
Then Ave were all silent, and, after a short pause, 
reverently entered into the house of death. 

At the door the son received us with a calm, 
humble, and untroubled face ; and in his manner 
towards the old minister, there was something that 
could not be misunderstood, expressing penitence, 
gratitude, and resignation. We all sat down in 
the large kitchen ; and the son decently received 
each person at the door, and shoAved him to his 
place. There Avere some old gray heads — more 
becoming gray — and many bright in manhood 
and youth. But the same solemn hush was over 
them all ; and they sat all bound together in one 
uniting and assimilating spirit of devotion and faith. 
Wine and bread Avas to be sent round ; but the 
son looked to the old minister, Avho rose, lifted up 
his Avithered hand, and began a blessing and a 
prayer. 

There Avas so much composure and stillness in 
the old man’s attitude, and something so affectiug 
in his voice, tremulous and broken, not in grief, 
but, age, that no sooner had he began to pray, thai» 


THR elder’s funeral. 


127 


iverj heart and every breatli at once were i.usherl. 
All stood motionless, nor could 'one eye abstain 
from that placid and patriarchal countenance 
with its closed eyes and long’ silvery hair. There 
was nothing sad in his words, but they were all 
humble and solemn, and at times even joyful in 
the kindling spirit of piety and faith. He spoke 
of the dead man’s goodness as imperfect in tlie 
eyes of his great Judge, but such, as we were 
taught, might lead, through intercession, to the 
kingdom of heaven. Might the bk -sing of God, 
he prayed, which had so long restet on the head 
now coffined, not forsake that of him who was 
now to be the father of this house. There was 
more — more joy, we were told, irt heaven over one 
sinner th{\t repenteth, than over ninety and nine 
just persons which need no repentance. Fervent- 
ly, too, and tenderly, did the old man pray for 
hei, in her silent chamber, who had lost so kind a 
parent, and for all the little children round her 
knees. Nor did he end his prayer Avithout some 
allusion to his own gray hairs, and to the approach- 
ing day on which many present Avould attend his 
burial. 

Just as he ceased to speak, one solitary stifled 
sob was heard, and all eyes turned kindly round 
to a little boy Avho was standing by the side of the 
Elder’s son. Restored once more to his OAvn fa- 
ther’s love, his heart had been insensibly filled Avith 
peace since the old man’s death. The returning 
tenderness of the living came in place of (iiat of 
the dead, and the child yearned toAvards his father 
now Avith a stronger affection, relieved at last from 
all his fear. He had been suffered to sit an hour 
each day beside the bed on Avhich his grandlathei 
lay shrouded, and he had got reconciled tr the 
cold, but silent and hajjpy looks of death. His 


128 THE elder’s funeral. 

niocher and his Bible told him to obey God with 
out repining in all things; and the child did so with 
perfect simplicity. One sob had found its way a 
the close of that pathetic prayer; but the tears that 
bathed his glistening cheeks were far ditYerent 
from those that, on the day and night of his graiiii- 
father’s decease, had burst from the agony of a 
breaking heart. The old minister laid his hand 
silently upon his golden head — there was a mo- 
mentary murmur of kindness and pity over the 
room — the child was pacified — and again all was 
repose and peace. 

A sober voice said that all was ready, and the 
son and the minister led the way reverently out 
into the open ail*. The bier stood before the door, 
and was lifted slowly up with its sable pall. Si- 
lently each mourner took his place. The sun was 
shining pleasantly, and a gentle breeze passing 
througli the sycamore, shook down the glittering 
rain-drops upon the funeral velvet. The small 
procession, with an instinctive spirit, began to 
move along; and as I cast up niy eyes to take a 
farewell look of that beautiful dwelling, now finally 
left by him who so long had blessed it, I saw at 
the half oj)en lattice of the little bed-room window 
above, the pale weeping face of that stainless ma- 
tron, who was taking her last passionate farewell 
of the mortal remains of her father, now slowly 
receding from her to the quiet field of giaves. 

We proceeded along the edges of the hills, and 
along the meadow fields, crossed the old wooden 
bridge over the burn, now widening in its course 
to the plain, and in an hour of pensive silence, or 
pleasant talk, we found ourselves entering, in a 
closer body, the little gateway of the church-yard. 
To the tolling of the bell we moved across the 
green mounds, and arranged ourselves, according 


THE ELDER S FUNERAL. 


129 


to the plan and order which our feelings suggested) 
around the bier and its natural supporters. There 
was no delay. In a few minutes the Elder was 
laid among the mould of his forefathers, in their 
long ago chosen spot of rest. One by one the 
people dropt away, and none were left by the new 
made grave but the son and his little boy, the pas- 
tor and myself. As yet nothing was said, and in 
that pause I looked around me, over the sweet 
burial-ground. 

Each tombstone and grave over which I had 
often walked in boyhood, arose in my memory, 
as I looked steadfastly upon their long-forgotten 
inscriptions ; and many had since tlieh been erect- 
ed. The whole character of the place was still 
simple and unostentatious, but from the abodes of 
the dead, I could see that there iiad been an im- 
provement in the condition of the living. There 
was a taste visible in their decorations, not without 
much of native feeling, and occasionally some- 
thing even of native grace. If there was any other 
inscription than the name and age of the poor in- 
habitants below, it was in general some short text 
of Scripture ; for it is most pleasant and soothing 
to the pious mind, when bereaved of friends, to 
commemorate them on earth by some touching 
expression taken from that book, which reveals to 
them a life in heaven. 

There is a sort of gradation, a scale of forgetful 
ness,in a country church-yard, where the processes 
of nature are suffered to go on over the green 
place of burial, that is extremely affecting in the 
contemplation. The soul goes from the grave 
just covered up, to that which seems scarcelyjoin- 
ed together, on and on to those folded and bound 
by the undisturbed verdtire of many, many unre- 
membered years. It then glides at last into ncoki 


130 


THE elder’s funeral. 


and corners where the ground seems perfectly calm 
and waveless, utter oblivion having smoothed the 
eaith over the long-niouldered bones. Tomb- 
stones on which the inscriptions are hidden • in ; 
green obliteration, or that are mouldering or fall- 
ing to a side, are close to others which last week 
were brushed by the chisel : — constant renovation - 
and constant decay — vain attempts' to adhere to 
memory — and oblivion, now baflied and now 
triumphant, smiling among all the memorials of , 
human affection, as they keep continually crum- 1 
bling away into the world of undistinguishable dust 
and ashes. 

The church-yard to the inhabitants of a rural 
parish, is the place to which, as they grow older, 
all their thoughts and feelings turn. The young 
take a look of it every Sabbath-day, not always 
perhaps a careless look, but carry away from it, 
unconsciously, many salutary impressions. What 
is more pleasant than the meeting of a rural con - 
gregation in the church-yard before the minister ap- 
pears! What i^ there to shudder at in lying down, 
sooner or later, in such a peaceful and sacred 
place, to be spoken of frequently on Sabbath among 
the groups of which we »ised to be one, and our 
burial-spot to be visited, at such times, as long as 
there remains on eaj'th any one to whom our face 
was dear ! To those who mix in the strife and 
clangers of the world, the place is felt to be uncer- 
tain wherein they may finally lie at rest. The 
soldier — the sailor — the traveller, can only see 
some dim grave dug for him, when he dies, in some 
place obscure — nameless — and unfixed to imagi- 
nation. All he feels is that his burial will bo — on 
earth — or in the sea. But the peaceful dwellers 
who cultivate their pateimal acies, or tilling at 
least the same spot of soil, shift only from a cot 


TIiE elder’s funeral. 


13 


tag^ on the hill-siJe to one on the plain, 5lill with 
in the bounds of one quiet parish ; they look to 
ay their bones at last in the burial-place of the 
kirk in which they were baptized, and with them 
it almost literally is but a step from the cradle to 
the grave. 

Such were the thoughts that calmly followed 
each other in my reverie as I stood beside the El- 
der’s grave, and the trodden grass was again lif" 
ing up its blades from the pressure of many feeu 
now all — but a few — departed. What a simp.e 
burial had it been ! Dust was consigned to dust 
— no more. Bare, naked, simple, and austere, is 
in Scotland the. service of the grave. It is left to 
the soul itself to consecrate, by its passion, the 
mould over which tears, but no words, are poured. 
Surely there is a beauty in this ; for the heart is 
left unto its own t sorrow, — according as it is a 
friend, a brother, a parent, or, a child, that is cov- 
ered up from our eyes. Yet call not other rites, 
however different from this, less beautiful or pa- 
.hetic. For willingly does the soul connect its 
grief with any consecrated ritual of the dead. 
Sound or silence, music, hymns, psalms, sable 
garments or raiment wliite as snow, all become 
holy symbols of the soul’s affection ; nor is it for 
any man to say which is the most natural, wdiich 
is the best of the thousand shows and expressi(*is, 
and testimonies of sorrow, resignation, and Ime, 
by which mortal beings would seek to express 
their souls when one of their brethren has returned 
t » his parent dust. 

My m’-jj was recalled from all these sad yet 
not •:''^..easant fancies by a deep groan, and I be- 
hd die Elder’s son ding himself down upon the 
grave, and kis.s it jiassionately, imploring pardon 
roro God.’ “ 1 distressed my father’s heart in In. 


132 


THE elder’s funeral. 


old age — I repented — aiu'. received thy forgivenesi 
even on thy death-bed ! But how may I be as- 
sured th.at God will forgive me for having so sin 
ned against my old gray-headed father, when his 
limbs were weak and his eye-sight dim V’ The 
old minister stood at the head of the grave, without 
speaking a word, with his solemn and pitiful eyes 
fixed upon the prostrate and contrite man. His 
sin had been great, and tears that till now had, on 
this day at least, been compressed within his heart 
by the presence of so many of his friends, now 
poured down upon the sod as if they would have 
found their way to the very body of his father 
Neither of us offered to lift him up, for we felt awed 
by the rueful passion of his love, his remorse, and 
his penitence ; and nature, we felt, ought to have 
her way. “Fear not, my son,” — at length said 
the old man, in a gentle voice — “ fear not, my son, 
but that you are already forgiven. Dost thou not 
feel pardon within thy contrite spirit!” He rose 
up from his knees with a faint smile, while the 
minister, with his white head yet uncovered, held 
his hands over him as in benediction; and that 
beautiful and loving child, who had been standing 
in a fit of weeping terror at his father’s agony, now 
came unto him, and kissed his cheek, holding in 
his little hand a few faded primroses which ne had 
unconsciously gathered together as they av od 
the turf of his grandfather’- grave. 


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“It was a low monument of the purest white marble and unon 
other^s^arms^” the sculptured images of two children’ as"eep In each 


Lights and Shadows, 


Page 133 


THE TWINS. 


133 


THE TWINS. 

The Kirk uf Aucliindown stands, with its burial 
ground, on a little green hill, surrounded by an 
irregular and straggling village, or rather about a 
hundred hamlets clustering around it, with their 
fields and gardens. A few of these gardens come 
close up to the church-yard wall, and in spring- 
time, many of the fruit-trees hang rich and beauti- 
ful over the adjacent graves. The voices and the 
laughter of the children at play on the green before 
the parish-school, or their composed murmur when 
at their various lessons together in the room, may 
be distinctly heard all over the burial-ground — so 
may the song of the maidens going to the Avell ; 
while all around, the singing of birds is thick and 
hurried ; and a small rivulet, as if brought there 
to be an emblem of passing time, glides away be 
neath the mossy wall, murmuring continually a 
dream-like tune round the dwellings of the dead. 

In the quiet of the evening, after the Elder’s fu- 
neral, my venerable friend and father took me 
with him into the church-yard. We walked to the 
eastern corner, where, as we approached, I saw a 
monument standing almost by itself, and even at 
that distance, appeared to be of a somewhat differ- 
ent character from any other over all the burial- 
ground. And now we stood close to, and before it. 

It was a low monument, of the purest white mar- 
ble, simple, but perfectly elegant and graceful withal, 
and upon its unadorned slab lay the sculptured 
images of two children asleep in each other’s arms. 
All round it was a small piece of greenest ground, 
without the protection of any rail, but obviously 
belonging to the monument. It shone, without 


134 


THE TWINS. 


offending them, among the simpler or ruder buiuil- 
beds round about it, and although the costliness of 
the materials, the affecting beauty of the design, 
and the delicacy of its execution, all showed that 
there slept , the offspring neither of the poor nor 
ow in life, yet so meekly and sadly did it lift up 
its unstained little walls, and so well did its un- 
usual elegance meet and blend with the character 
of the common tombs, that no heart could see it 
without sympathy, and without owning that it was 
a pathetic ornament of a place, filled with the ruder 
memorials of the very humblest dead. 

“ There lie two of the sweetest children,” said 
the old man, “ that ever delighted a mother’s soul 
— two English boys — scions of a noble stem. 
They were of a decayed family of high lineage ; 
and had they died in their own country a hundred 
years ago, they would have been let down into a 
vault with all the p^mp of religion. Methinks, 
fair flowers, they are now sleeping as meetly here 

“ Six years ago I was an old man, and wished 
to have silence and stillness in my house, that my 
communion with Him before whom 1 expected 
every day to be called might be undisturbed. Ac- 
cordingly my Manse, that used to ring with boy- 
ish glee, was now quiet ; when a lady, elegant, 
graceful, beautiful, young, and a widow, came to 
my dwelling, and her soft, sweet, silver voice told 
me that she was from England. She was the 
relict of an officer slain in war, and having heard 
a dear friend of her husband’s, who had lived in 
m) house, speak of his happy and innocent time 
here, she earnestly requested me to receive be- 
neath my roof her two sons. She herself lived 
with the hed-ridden mother of her dear husband ; 
and, anxious for the growing minds of her boys 
she sought to commit them for a short time to my 


THE TWINS. 


13d 


care. They and their mother soon won an old 
man’s heart, and I could say nothing in opposi 
tion to her request but that I was upwards of three 
score and ten years. But I am living still — and 
that is their monument.” 

We sat down, at these words, on the sloping 
head-stone of a grave just opposite to this little 
beautiful structure, and, without entreaty, and as 
if to bring back upon his heart the delight of old 
tender remembrances, the venerable man continued 
feiTently thus to speak : 

“ The lady left them with me in the Manse — 
surely the two most beautiful and engaging crea- 
tures that ever died in youth. They were twins. 
Like were they unto each other, as two bright 
plumaged doves of one colour, or two flowers 
with the same blossom and the same leaves. They 
were dressed alike, and whatever they wore, in 
that did they seem more especially beautiful. 
Their hair was the same, a bright auburn — their 
voices were as one — so that the twins were insepa- 
rable in my love, whether I beheld them, or my 
dim eyes were closed. From the first hour they 
were left alone with me, and without their mother, 
in the Manse, did I begin to love them, nor were 
they slow in returning an old man’s aflection. 
They stole up to my side, and submitted their 
smooth, glossy, leaning heads to my withered and 
trembling hand, nor for a while could I tell, as 
the sweet beings came gliding gladsomely near me. 
which was Edward and which was Henry ; and 
often did they, in loving playfulness, try to de 
ceive my loving heart. But they could not defraud 
each other of their tenderness ; for whatever the 
one received, that was ready to be bestowed upon 
the other. To ove the one more than the other 
was impossible. 


j36 


THE TIVINS. 


“ Sweet creatures ! it was net lon^ befoi* 1 
learned to distinguish them. That which seemed 
to me, at first, so perfectly the same, soon unfold- 
ed itself out into many delightful varieties, and 
then I wondered how I ever could have mistaken 
them for one another. Difierent shadows played 
upon their hair ; that of the one ‘being silky and 
smooth, and of the other slightly curled at the 
edges, and clustering thickly when he flung his 
locks back in playfulness or joy. His eyes, though 
of a hazel-hue like that of his brother, were con- 
siderably lighter, and a smile seemed native there; 
while those of the other seemed almost dark, and 
fitter for the mist of tears. Dimples marked the 
cheeks of the one, but those of the other were 
paler and smooth. Their voices too, when I lis- 
tened to them, and knew their character, had a 
faint fluctuating difference of inflection and tone — 
like the same instrument blown upon with a some- 
what stronger or weaker breath. Their very laugh 
grew to be different unto my ear — that of the one 
freer and more frequent, that of the other mild in 
its utmost glee. And they had not been many 
days in the Manse, before I knew in a moment, 
dim as my eyes had long been, the soft, timid, 
stealing step of Edward, from the dancing and 
fearless motion of Henry Howard.” 

Here the old man paused, not, as it seemed, from 
any fatigue in speaking so long, but as if to indulge 
more profoundly in his remembrance of the chil- 
dren whom he had so tenderly loved. He fixed 
his dim eyes on their sculptured images with as 
fond an expression, as if they had been alive, an 
had lain down there to sleep — and when, without 
looking on me whom he felt tc have been listening 
with quiet attention, he again began to speak, n 


THE TWINS. 


13 


was partly to tell the tale of these fair sleepers 
and partly to give vent to his loving grief. 

“ All strangers, even many who thought thev 
knew them well, were pleasantly perplexed witn 
the faces and figures of the bright English twins. 
The poor beggars, as they M'ent their rounds, 
blessed them, without knowing whether it was Ed. 
ward or Henry that had bestowed ms alms. The 
mother of the cottage children with whom they 
played, confused their images in her loving heart, 
as she named them in her prayers. When only 
one was present, it gave a start of strange delight 
so them who did not know the twins, to see another 
creature, so beautifully the same, come gliding in 
upon them, and join his brother in a share of their 
suddenly bestowed aflection. 

“ They soon came to love, with all their hearts, 
she place wherein they had their new habitation. 
Not even in their own merry England had their 
young eyes ever seen brighter green fields, — trees 
more umbrageous — or, perhaps, even rural gardens 
more flowery and blossoming, than those of this 
Scottish village. They had lived, indeed, mostly 
in a tow'n ; and, in the midst of the freshness and 
balminess of the country, they became happier and 
more gleesorne — it was said by many, even more 
beautiful. The aflectionate creatures did not for- 
get their mother. Alternately did they write to 
her every week — and every week did one or other 
receive fri^ her a letter, in which the sweetest 
matetnal feelings were traced in small delicate 
lines, that bespoke the band of an accomplished 
lady. Their education had not been neglected ; 
and they learnt every thing they were taught with 
a surprising quickness and docility — alike amiable 
and intelligent. Morning and evening too, did 
they kneel down with clasped hands — these lovely 


138 


THE TWINS. 


twins — even ;it my feet, and resting on my knees; 
and melodiously did they murmur together the 
hymns which their mother had taught them, and 
passages selec|ed from the Scriptures, — many of 
which are in the affecting, beautiful, and sublime 
ritual of the English church. And always, the last 
thing they did, before going to sleep in each other’s 
arms, was to look at their mother’s picture, and to 
kiss it with fond kisses, and many an endearing 
name.” 

Just then, two birds alighted softly on the white 
marble monument, and began to trim their plumes; 
they were doves from their nest in the belfry of the 
spire, from which a low, deep, plaintive murmuring 
was now heard to come, deepening the profound 
silence of the burial-ground. The two bright birds 
walked about for a few minutes round the images 
of the children, or stood quietly at their feet ; and 
then, clapping their wings, flew up and disappear- 
ed. The incident, though at any other time com- 
mon and uninteresting, had a strange effect upon 
my heart now, and seemed dimly emblematic of 
the innocence and beauty of the inhabitants of that 
tomb, and of the flight of their sinless souls to 
heaven. 

“ One evening in early autumn, (they had been 
with me from the middle of May,) Edward, the 
elder, complained, on going to bed, of a sore throat, 
and I proposed that his brother should sleep in 
another bed. I saw them myself, accordingly, in 
separate places of repose. But on going, about 
an hour afterwards, into their room, there I found 
them locked, as usual, in each other’s arms — face 
to face — and their innocent breath mingling from 
lips that nearly touched I could not find heart 
to separate them, nor could I have done so, with- 
out awaking Edward. His cheeks were red and 


THE TWINS. 


139 


flushed, and his sleep broken and full of starts 
Early in the morning I was at their bed-side, 
lliinry was lying apart from his brother, looking 
at him with a tearful face, and his little arm laid 
so as to touch his bosom. Edward was unable to 
rise — his throat was painful, his pulse high, and 
his heart sick. Before evening he became slightly 
delirious, and his illness was evidently a fever of 
a dangerous and malignant kind. He was, I told 
you, a bold and gladsome child, when not at his 
tasks, dancing and singing almost every hour; but 
the fever quickly subdued his spirit, the shivering 
fits made him weep and wail, and rueful, indeed, 
was the change which a single night and day had 
brought forth. 

“ His brother seemed to be afraid more than 
children usually are of sickness, which they are 
always slow to link with the thought of death. But 
he told me, weeping, that his elder brother had died 
of a fever, and thatliis mother was always alarmed 
about that disease. “ Did I think,” asked he, with 
wild eyes, an^ a palpitating heart, “ did I think 
that Edward was going to die ?” I looked at the 
aftectionate child and taking him to my bosom, 
[ felt that his own blood was beating but too quick- 
ly, and that fatal had been that night’s sleejiing 
embrace in his brother’s bosom. The fever had 
tainted his sweet veins also — and I had soon to lay 
him shivering on his bed. In another day he too 
was delirious — and too plainly chasing his brother 
into the grave. 

“ Never in the purest hours of their heaVhful 
happiness had their innocent natures seemed to 
me more beautiful than now in their delirium. As 
it increased, all vague fears of dying left their 
souls, and they kejit talking as if to each oilier of 
every thing here or in England that was pleasant 


140 


THE rWINB. 


and interesting. Now and ther they murmured 
the names of persons of whom I had not formerly 
heard them speak — friends nhonad been kind tc 
them before I had known of their existence, and 
servants in their mother’s or their father’s house- 
hold. Of their mother they spoke to themselves, 
though necessarily kept apart, almost in the very 
same words, expecting a visit from Iver at the 
Manse, and then putting out their little hands to 
embrace her. All their innocent plays were acted 
over and over again on the bed of death. They 
were looking into the nests of the little singing 
birds, which they never injured, in the hedge-rows 
and the woods. And the last intelligible words 
that I heard Edward utter, were these : ‘ Let us 
go, brother, to the church-yard, and lie down on 
the daisies among the little green mounds !’ 

“ They both died within an hour of each other 
I lifted up Henry, when I saw he too was dead, 
and laid him down beside his brother. There la^ 
the twins ; and had their mother at that hour 
come into the room she would have been thankful 
to see that sight, for she would haVe thought that 
her children were in a calm and refreshing sleep!” 

My eyes were fixed upon the sculptured images 
of the dead, lying side by side, with their faces up 
to heaven, their little hands folded as in prayer 
upon their bosoms, and their eyelids closed. The 
old man drew a sigh, almost like a sob, and wept. 

hey had been entrusted to his care — they had 
ome smiling from another land — for one summer 
they were happy — and then disappeared, like the 
other fading flowers, from the earth. I wished 
that the old man would cease his touching narra- 
tive — both for his sake and my own. So I rose, 
and walked up quite close to the monument, iu- 
•pecting the spirit of its design^ and marking the 


THE TvriNS. 


141 


finish of its execution. But he calleJ me to hin^ 
and requesting me to resume my seat beside him 
on the grave-stone, he thus continued : 

“ I had written to their mother in England that 
her children were in extreme danger, but it was 
not possible that she could arrive in time to see 
v.hem die, not even to see them buried. Decay 
was fast preying upon them, and the beauty of 
death was beginning to disappear. . So we could 
not wait the arrival of their mother, and their 
grave was made. Even the old gray-headed sex- 
ton wept, for in this case of mortality there was 
something to break in upon the ordinary tenor of 
his thoughts, and to stir up in his heart feelings 
that he could not have known existed there. There 
was sadness indeed over all the parish for the fair 
English twins, who had come to live in the Manse 
after all the other boys had left it, and who, as 
they were the last, so were they the loveliest of all 
my flock. The very sound or accent of their 
southern voices, so pretty and engaging to our 
ears in the simplicity of childhood, had won many 
a heart, and touched, too, the inwiginations of 
many with a new delight ; and therefore, on the 
morning when they were buried, it may be said 
there was here a fast-day of grief. 

“ The dead children were English ; — in Eng- 
land had all their ancestors been born ; and I 
knew, from the little I had seen of the mother, 
that though she had brought her mind to confide 
her children to the care of a Scottish minister in 
their tender infancy, she was attached truly and 
deeply to the ordinances of her own church. I 
felt that it would be accordant with her feelings, 
and that afterwards she would have satisfaction in 
the thought, that they should be buried according 
to the form of the Engiish funeral service. I 


142 


THE TWINS. 


nonimunicated this wish to an Episcc paliaii cler 
gyman in the city, and he came to my house. He 
arranged the funeral, as far as possible in the cir- 
cumstances, according to that service ; and, al> 
though, no doubt, a feeling of curiosity mingled in 
many minds with the tenderness and awe which 
that touching and solemn ceremonial awakened, 
yet it was witnessed, not only without any feelings 
of repugnance or scorn, but, I may in truth say, 
with a rational sympathy, and with all the devout 
emotions embodied in language so scriptural and 
true to nature. 

“ The bier was carried slowly aloft upon men’s 
shoulders, towards the church-yard gate. I my- 
self walked at their little heads. Some of the 
neighbouring gentry — my own domestics — a few 
neighbours — and some of the school children, 
formed the procession. The latter, walking be- 
fore the coffin, continued singing a funeral psalm 
all the way till we reached the church-yard gate. 
It was a still, gentle autumnal day, and now and 
then a withered leaf came rustling across the path 
of the weeping choristers. To us, to whom that 
dirge-like strain was new, all seemed like a pen- 
sive, and mournful, and holy dream. 

“ The clergyman met the bier at the gate, and 
preceded it into the kirk. It was then laid down ; 
and while all knelt — I keeping rny place at the 
heads of the sweet boys — he read, beautifully, af- 
fectiugly, and solemnly, a portion of the funeral 
service. The children had been beloved and ad- 
mired, while alive, as the English twins, and so 
had they always been called ; and that feeling of 
their having belonged, as it were, to another coun 
try, not only justified but made pathetic to all now 
a.ssembled upon their knees, the ritual employed 
by that church, to which they, and their parents, 


THB TWINS. 


And all iheir ancestors, had belonged. A sighi 
and a sobbing too, was heard over the silence of 
my kirk, when the clergyman repeated these 
words : ‘As soon as thou scatterest them, they are 
even as a steep, and fade away suddenly like the 
grass. 

“ ‘In the morning it is green and groweth up ; 
but in the evening it is cut down, dried up, and 
withered.’ ” 

While the old man was thus describing their 
burial, the clock in the steeple struck, and he 
paused a moment at the solemn sound. Soon as 
it had slowly told the hour of advancing evening, 
he arose from the grave stone, as if his mind 
sought a relief from the weight of tenderness, in 
a change of bodily position. We stood together 
facing the little monument, and his narrative was 
soon brought to a close. 

“ We were now all collected together round the 
grave. The silence of yesterday, at the Elder’s 
funeral, was it not felt by you to be agreeable to 
all our natural feelings? So Avere the words 
Avhich were noM^ spoken over these children. The 
whole ceremony was different, but it touched the 
very same feelings in our hearts. It lent an ex- 
pression to what, in that other case, was willing to 
be silent. There was a sweet, a sad, a mournful 
consistency in the ritual of death, from the mo- 
ment we receded from the door of the Manse, ac- 
companied hy the music of that dirge sung by tire 
clear, tremuloiis voices of the young and innocent, 
till we entered the kirk with the coffin to the sound 
of the priest’s chanted verses from Job and St. 
John, during the time when wo knelt round the 
dead children in the house of God, also during 
our procession thence to the grave-side, still at- 
tended with clianting, or reciting, or responding 


144 


THE TWINS. 


vQjces ; and, finally, at the moment of dropping 
of a piece of earth upon the coffin, (it was from 
my own hand,) while the priest said, ‘ We commit 
their bodies to the ground, earth to earth, ashes to 
ashes, dust to dust, in sure and certain hope of the 
resurrection to eternal life, through our Lord Je 
BUS Christ.’ 

Next day their mother arrived at the Manse. 
She knew, before she came, that her children were 
dead and buried. It is true that she wept; and at the 
first sight of their grave, for they both lay in one 
coffin, her grief was passionate and bitter. But 
that fit soon passed away. Her tears were tears 
of pity for them, but as for herself, she hoped that 
she was soon to see them in heaven. Her face pale, 
yet flushed — her eyes hollow, yet bright — and a 
general languor and lassitude over her whole 
frame — all told that she was in the first stage of a 
consumption. This she knew, and was happy 
But other duties called her back to England, for 
the short remainder of her life. She herself drew 
ihe design of that monument with her own hand, 
nd left it wfith me when she went away. I soon 
card of her death. Her husband lies buried near 
Grenada, Spain ; she lies in the chancel of the 
cathedral of Salisbury, in England ; and there 
sleep her twins in the little burial-ground of AucJt> 
indown, a Scottish parish.” 


THE POOR SCHOLAR. 


.45 


THE POOR SCHOLAR. 

The >^rnal weather, tliat Imd come so early in 
ihe year, as to induce a fear that it would not be 
lasting, seemed, contrary to that foreboding of 
change, to become every day more mild and ge* 
trial ; and the spirit of beauty, that had at first 
ventured out over the bosom of the earth with tim- 
id footsteps, was now blending itself more boldly 
with the deep verdure of the ground, and the life 
of the budding trees. Something in the air, and 
in the great, wide, blue, bending arch of the un- 
clouded sky, called upon the heart to come forth 
from the seclusion of parlour or study, and par- 
take of the cheerfulness of nature. 

VV'e had made some short excursions together 
up the lonely glens, and over the moors, and also 
through the more thickly inhabited field-farms of 
his parish, and now the old minister proposed that 
we should pay a visit to a solitary hut near the 
head of a dell, which, although not veiy remote 
from the Manse, we had not yet seen. And I 
was an.xious that we should do so, as, from his 
conversation, 1 understood that we should see 
there a family — if so a widow and her one son 
could be called — that would repay us by the inter- 
est we could not fail to feel in their character, for 
the time and toil spent in reaching their secluded 
and guarded dwelling. 

“ The poor widow woman,” said he minister, 
“ who lives in the hut called Rraehead, has as no 
ble a soul as ever tenanted a human bosom. One 
earthly hope alone has she now — but I fear it 
never will be fulfilled. She is the, widow of a 
common cottei;, vho lived and died in the but 


146 


THE POOR SCHOLAR. 


which she and her son now inhabit. Her huK- 
band was a man of little education but intelligent, 
even ingenious, simple, laborious, and pious. His 
duties lay all within a narrow circle, and his temp- 
tations, it may be said, were few. Such as they 
were, lie discharged the one and withstood the 
other. Nor is there any reason to think that, had 
.hey both been greater, he would have been found 
ivanting. He was contented with meal and water all 
ais days; and so fond of work, that he .seemed to 
love the summer chieflv for the length of its labour- 
mg days. He had a slight genius for mechanics; 
and, during the long winter evenings he made 
many articles of curious workmanship, the sale 
of which added a little to the earnings of his se- 
verer toil. The same love of industry excited him 
from morning to night ; but he had also stronger, 
tenderer, and dearer motives, for if his wife and 
their one pretty boy should outlive him, he hoped 
that, though left poor, they would not be left in 
penury, but enabled to lead, without any addition 
al hardships, the usual life, at least, of the widow 
and the orphans of honest, hard-working men. 
Few thought much about Abraham Blane while he 
jived, except that he was an industrious and blame- 
Sess man ; but on his death, it was felt that there 
nad been something far more valuable in his char- 
acter; and now I myself, who knew him well, 
was pleasingly surprised to kjiow tliat he l»» 7 d left 
JUS widow and boy a small independence. Then 
tne memory of his long summer days, and long 
winter nights, all ceaselessly employed in some 
kind of manual labour, dignified the lowly and 
8te idfast virtue of the unpretending and conscien- 
tious man. 

“ TJ .e w'id^w of this humble-hearted and simple- 
ninded man, vdiom we shall tliis forenoon visit, 


THE POOR SCHOLAR. 


! 4 : 

you will remember, perhaps, although then mnthei 
she nor her husband were much known in the parish, 
as the wife of the basket-maker. Her father had 
been a clergyman — but his stipend was one of the 
smallest in Scotland, and he died in extreme pover 
ty. This, his only daughter, who hud many line 
feelings and deep thoughts in her young, innocent, 
and simple heart, was forced to become a menial 
servant in a farm-house. There subduing her 
heart to her situation, she married that inoffensive 
and good man ; and all her life has been — maid, 
wife, and widow, — the humblest among the hum- 
ble. But you shall soon have an opportunity of 
seeing what sense, what feeling, what knowledge, 
and what piety, may all live together, without theii 
owner suspecting them, in the soul of the lonely 
widow of a Scottish cotter ; for, except that she is 
pious, she thinks not that siie possesses any other 
treasure ; and even her piety she regards, like a 
true Christian, as a gift bestowed. 

“ But well worthy of esteem, and to speak in 
the language of this world’s fancies, of admiration, 
as you will think this poor solitary widow, perhaps 
y6u will think such feelings bestowed even more 
deservedly on her only son. He is now a boy 
only of sixteen years of age, but, in my limited ex- 
perience of life, never knew 1 such another. From 
Ins veriest infancy he showed a singular capacit} 
for learning ; at seven years of age he could read, 
write, and was even an arithmetician. He seized 
upon books with the same avidity with which chil- 
dren, in general, seize upon playthings. He soon 
caught glimmerings of the meaning even of other 
languages ; and before he was ten years old, there 
were in his mind clear dawnings of the scholar 
and indications not to be doubted of genius and 
intellectual power. His father was dead — bui luj 


148 


THE POOR SCHOLAR. 


motlipr, A^ho was no common woman, howevei 
common her lot, saw with pure delight, and with 
strong maternal pride, that God had given her am 
extraordinary child to bless her solitary hut. She 
vowed to dedicate him to the ministry, and that al. 
her husband had left should be spent upon him tc 
the last farthing, to qualify him to be a preacher 
of God’s word. Such ambition, if sometimes mis- 
placed, is almost always necessarily honourable. 
Here it was justified by the excelling talents of the 
boy — by his zeal for knowledge — which was like 
a fever in his blood — and by a childish piety, of 
which the simple, and eloquent, and beautiful ex- 
pression has more than once made me shed tears. 
But let us leave the Manse, and walk to Braehead. 
The sunshine is precious at this early season; let 
us enjoy it while it smiles !” 

AVe crossed a few fields — a few coppice woods 
— an extensive sheep pasture, and then found our- 
selves on the edge of a moor-land. Keeping the 
shelving heather ridge of hills above us, we gently 
descended into a narrow rushy glen, without any 
thing that could be called a stream, but here and 
there crossed and intersected by various runlets. 
Soon all cultivation ceased, and no houses were 
to be seen. Had the glen been a long one, it 
would have seemed desolate, but on turning round 
a little green mount that ran almost across it, we 
saw at once an end to our walk, and one hut, with 
a peat-stack close to it, and one or two elder, or, 
as we call them in Scotland, bourtrie-bushes, al 
the low guble-end. A little smoke seemed to tings 
the air over the roof uncertainly — but except in 
that, there was nothing to tell that the hut was 
inhaliited. A few sheep lying near it, and a sin- 
gle cow of the small hill-breed, seemed to ap})fcr- 
tain tj the hut, and a circular wall behind it ap- 


THE POOR SCHOLAR 


149 


parently enclosed a garden. We sal dowr togeth- 
er on ojie of those large mossy stones that often 
lie among the smooth green pastoral hills, like the 
relics of some building utterly decayed ; and my 
venerable friend, whose solemn voice was indeed 
pleasant in this quiet solitude, continued the sim 
pie history of the Poor Scholar. 

“At school he soon outstripped all the olhei 
boys, but no desire of supeiiority over his com- 
panions seemed to actuate him — it was the pure 
Aative love of knowledge. Gentle as a lamb, but 
haj/py as a lark, the very wildest of them all loved 
Isaac Blane. He procured a Hebrew Bible and 
a Greek Testament, both of which he taught him 
self to read. It was more than affecting — it was 
sublime and awful to see the solitary boy sitting 
by himself on the braes shedding tears over the 
mysteries of the Christian faith. His mother’s 
heart burned within her towards her son ; and if 
it was pride, you will allow that it was pride of a 
divine origin. She appeared with him in the kirk 
every Sabbath, dressed not ostentatiously, but still 
in a way that showed she intended him not for a 
life of manual labour. Perhaps at first some half 
thought that she was too proud of him ; but that 
was a suggestion not to be cherished, for all ac- 
knowledged that he was sure to prove an honour to 
the parish in which he was born. She often brought 
him to the Manse, and earth did not contain a 
happier creature than lier, when her boy answered 
all my questions, and modestly made his own sim 
pie, yet wise remarks on the sacred subjects gra 
dual'y unfolding before his understanding and his 
heart. 

“ Before he was twelve years of age he went tc 
college — and his mother accomi)anied him to pass 
the winter in the city Tvc small rooms .«hetook 


150 


THE POOR SCHOLAR. 


near the cathedral, and while he was at the classtj#- 
or readiujj alone, she was not idle, but strove to 
make a small sum to help to defray their winter 
expenses. To her, that retired cell was a heaven 
when she looked upon her pious and studious boy. 
His genius was soon conspicuous ; for four win- 
ters he purstied his studies in the university — re- 
turning always in summer to this but, the door of 
which during their absence was closed. He made 
many friends, and fretjuently, during the three 
last summers, visitors came to pass a day at Brae- 
head, in a rank of life far above his own. But in 
Scotland, thank God, talent, and learning, and 
genius, and virtue, when found in the poorest hut, 
go not witiiout their admiration and their reward. 
Young as he is, he has had pupils of his own — his 
mother’s little property has not been lessened at 
this hour by his education — and besides contribut- 
ing to the support of her and himself, he has 
brought neater furniture into that lonely hut, and 
there has he a library, limited in the number, but 
rich in the choice of books, such as contain food 
for years of silent thought to the Poor Scholar — 
if years indeed are to be his on earth.” 

We rose to proceed onwards to the hut, across 
one smooth level of greenest herbage, and up one 
intervening knowe a little lower than the mount 
on which it stood. Why, thought I, has the old 
man always spoken of the Poor Scholar, as if he 
had been speaking of one now dead 1 Can it be, 
from the hints he has drojiped, that this youth, so 
richly endowed, is under the doom of death, and 
the fountain of all those clear and fresh gushing 
thoughts about to be sealed? I asked, as we walk- 
ed along, if Isaac Blane seemed marked out to be 
one of those sweet flowers “ no sooner blown than 
bluated,” and who perish away like the creatures 


THE POOR SCHOLAR. 


151 


of a dream 1 The old man made answer that “it 
was even so — tliat he had been unable to attend 
college last winter — and that it was to be feared 
he was now far advanced in a hopeless decline 
Simple is he still as a very child — but with a sub- 
lime sense of duty to God and man — of profound 
affection and humanity never to be appeased to- 
wards all the brethren of our race. Each month, 
each week, each day has seemed visibly to bring 
him new stores of silent feeling and thought ; and 
even now, boy as he is, he is fit for the ministry. 
But he has no hopes of living to that day ; nor have 
[. The deep spirit of his piety is now blended 
.vith a sure prescience of an early death. Expect, 
therefore, to see him pale, emaciated, and sitting 
in the hut like a beautiful and blessed ghost.” 

We entered the hut, but no one was in the room. 
The clock ticked solitarily — and on a table, beside 
a nearly extinguished peat fire, lay the open Bible, 
and a small volutne, which, on lifting it up, 1 
found to be a Greek Testament. “ They have 
gone out to walk, or to sit down for an hour in 
the warm sunshine,” said the old man — “ Let us 
sit down and wait their return. It will not be 
long.” A long low sigh was heard in the silence, 
jiroceeding, as it seemed from a small room ad- 
joining that in which we were sitting, and of which 
the door was left half open. The minister looked 
into that room, and after a long earnest gaze, 
stepped softly back to me again, with a solemn 
face, and taking me by the hand, whispered to me 
to come with him to that door, which he gently 
moved. On a low bed lay tlie Poor Scholar, 
dressed as he had been for the day, stretched out 
in a stillness too motionless and profound for sleep, 
and with his fixed face up to heaven. We saw 
that he was dead. His mother was kneeling, with 


153 


THE POOR SCHOLAR. 


her face on the bed, and covered with bjth her 
hands. Then she lifted up her eyes and said, “ O 
Mercif'jrl Redeemer, wlio wrought that miracle on 
the child of the widow of Nain, comfort me, com- 
fort me, in this my sore distress ! I know that my 
son is never to rise again until the great Judg- 
ment-day. But not the less do I bless thy holy 
name — for thou didst die to save us sinners !” 

She arose from her knees, and still blind to every 
other object, went up to his breast. “ I thought 
thee lovelier, when alive, than any of the sons of 
the children of men — but that smile is beyond the 
power of a mother’s heart to sustain.” And stoop- 
ing down she kissed his lips, and cheeks, and eyes, 
and forehead, with a hundred soft, streaming, and 
murmuring kisses, and then stood up in her soli- 
tary hut, alone and childless, with a long mortal 
sigh, in which all earthly feelings seemed breathed 
out, and all earthly ties broken. Her eyes wan- 
dered towards the door, and fixed themselves with 
a ghastly and unconscious gaze for a few moments 
on the gray locks and withered countenance of 
the old holy man, bent towards her with a pitying 
»nd benignant air, and stooped, too, in the posture 
of devotion. She soon recognized the best friend 
of her son, and leaving the bed on which his body 
lay, she came out into the room, and said, “ You 
have come to me at a time when your presence 
was sorely needed. Had you been here but a few 
minutes sooner, you would have seen my Isaac 
die !” 

Unconsciously we were all seated ; and the 
widow turning fervently to her venerated friend, 
said, “ He was reading the Bible — he felt faint — 
and said feebly, ‘ Mother, attend me to my bed, 
and when I lie down, put your arm over my breast 
und kiss me.’ I did just as he told me ; and on 


THE POOR SCHOLAR. 


153 


viping away a tear or two vainly sli3d by mo on 
my dear boy’s face, I saw that his eyes, though 
open, moved not, and that the lids were fixed. He 
had gone to another world. See — Sir ! there is 
the Bible lying open at the place he was reading 
— God preserve my soul from repining — only afew, 
few minutes ago.” 

The minister took the Bible on his knees, and 
laying his right hand, without selection, on part 
of one of the pages that lay open, he read aloud 
the following verses : 

“ Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the 
kingdom of heaven. 

“ Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be 
comforted.” 

The mother’s heart seemed to be deeply blest 
for a while by these words. She gave a grateful 
smile to the old man, and sat silent, moving her 
lips. At length she again broke forth : 

“ Oh ! Death, whatever may have been our 
thoughts or fears, ever comes unexpectedly at last ! 
My son often — often, told me, that he was dying, 
and I saw that it was so ever since Christmas. But 
how could I prevent hope from entering my heartl 
His sweet happy voice — the calmness of his pray- 
ers — his smiles, that never left his face whenever 
he looked or spoke to me — his studies, still pur- 
sued as anxiously as ever — the interest he took in 
any little ijicident of our retired life — all forced 
me to believe at times that he was not yet destined 
to die. But why think on all these things now 1 
Yes ! 1 will always think of them, till I join him 
and my husband in heaven !” 

It seemed now as if the widow had only noticed 
me for the first time. Her soul had been so en 
grossed with its passion of grief, and with the fell 
sympathy and compassion of my venerable friend. 


154 


THE 1‘OOU SCHOLAR. 


She asked me if I had Known her son ; and I 
answered, that if I had, I could not liave sat there 
so composedly, but that I was no stranger to his 
incomparable excellence, and felt indeed for her 
grievous loss. She listened to my words, but did 
not seem to hear them, and once more addressed 
the old man. “ He suffered much sickness, my 
poor boy ; for although it was a consumption, 
that is not always an easy death. But soon as 
the sickness and the racking pain gave way to our 
united prayers, God and our Saviour made us 
happy, and sure he spake then as never mortal 
spake, kindling into a happiness that was beauti- 
ful to see, when I beheld his face marked by dissolu- 
tion, and knew even in those inspired moments, 
for I can call them nothing else, that ere long the 
dust was to lie on those lips now flowing over with 
heavenly music !” 

We sat for some hours in the widow’s hut, and 
the minister several times prayed with her, at her 
own request. On rising to depart, he said that he 
would send up one of her dearest friends to pass 
the night with her, and help her to do the last of- 
fices to her son. But she replied that she wished 
to be left alone for that day and night, and would 
expect her friend in the morning. We went to- 
wards the outer door, and she, in a sort of a sud- 
den stupor, let us depart without any farewell 
words, and retired into the room where her son*" 
was lying. Casting back our eyes, before our de- 
jjarture, we saw her steal into the bed beside the 
dead body, and drawing the head gently into her 
besom, she lay down with him in her arms, and 
08 if they had in that manner fallen as eep. 


THE FORSERS. 


165 


\ THE F0R(;ERS. 

“ I.ET US sit down on this stone seat,” said my 
Bged friend, the pastor, “ and I will tell you a tale 
of tears, concerning the last inhabitants of yonder 
solitary house, just visible on the hill-side, through 
the gloom of those melancholy pines. Ten years 
have passed away since the terrible catastrophe of 
which I am about to speak ; and I know not how 
it is, but methinks, whenever I come into this glen, 
there is something rueful in its silence, while the 
common sounds of nature seem to my mind dirge- 
like and forlorn. Was not this very day bright 
and musical as we walked across all the other 
hills and valleys 'I but now a dim mist overspreads 
the sky, and, beautiful as this lonely place must 
in truth be, there is a want of life in the verdure 
and the flowers, as if they grew beneath the dark- 
ness of perpetual shadows.” 

As the old man was speaking, a female figure, 
bent with age and infirmity, came slowly up the 
bank below us with a pitcher in her hand, and 
when she reached a little well, dug out of a low 
rock all covered with moss and lichens, she seem- 
ed to fix her eyes upon it as in a dream, and gave 
a long, deep, broken sigh. 

“ The names of her husband and her only son, 
both dead, are chiselled by their own hands on a 
smooth stone within the arch of that fountain, and 
the childless widow at this momoHt sees nothing 
on the face of the earth but a few letters not yet 
overgrown with the creeping time-stains. See ! 
her pale lips are moving in prayer, and old as she 
and long resigned in ber utter hopelessness, the 


150 


THE FORGERS. 


tears are not yet all shed or dried up ^^’ithin het 
broken heart, — a few big drops are on her wither* 
ed cheeks, but she feels them not, and is uncon- 
sciously weeping with eyes that old age has of it- 
self enough Ijedimmed.” 

The tigure remained motionless beside the wci. ; 
and thougb I knew not the history of the griefs 
that stood all embodied so mournfully before me, 
I felt that they must have been gathering together 
for many long years, and that such sighs as I had 
now heard came from the uttermost desolation of 
the human heart. At last she dipped her pitcher 
in the water, lifted her eyes to heaven, and, dis- 
tinctly saying, “ O Jesus, Son of God ! whose 
blood was shed for sinners, be merciful to their 
souls !” she turned away from the scene of her 
sorrow, and, like one seen in a vision, disappeared. 

“ I have beheld the childless widow happy,” 
said the pastor, “ even her who sat alone, with 
none to comfort her, on a floor swept by the hand 
of death of all its blossoms. But her whom we 
have now seen I dare not call happy, even though 
she puts her trust in God and her Savioui'. Hers 
is an atfliction which faith itself cannot assuage. 
Yet religion may have softened even sighs like 
tliose, and, as you shall hear, it was religion that 
set her free from the horrid dreams of madness, 
and restored her to that comfort which is always 
found in the possession of a reasonable soul.” 

There was not a bee roaming near us, nor a 
bird singing in the solitary glen, when the old 
man gave me these hints of a melancholy tale. 
The sky was black and lowering, as it lay on the 
silent hills, and enclosed us from the far-off world 
in a sullen spot that was felt to be sacred unto sor 
row. The flgure which had come and gojie with 
a sigh was the only dweller here ; and I was pre- 


THE FORGERS. 


157 


pared to hear a doleful history of one left alone to 
commune with a broken heart in the cheerless 
solitude of •'.ature. 

“ That house, from whose chimneys no smoke 
has ascended for ten long years,” continued my 
friend, “ once showed its windows bright with 
cheerful fires ; and her whom we now saw so wo- 
begone, I remember brought home a youthful 
bride, in all the beauty of her joy and innocence. 
Twenty years beheld her a wife and a mother, 
vvitli all their most perfect happiness, and with 
some, too, of their inevitable griefs. Deati) passed 
not by her door \vithout its victims, and, of five 
children, all but one died, in infancy, childhood, 
or blooming youth. But they died in nature’s corn* 
mon decay, — peaceful prayers were said around 
the bed of peace ; and when the flowers grew 
upon their graves, the mother’s eyes could bear to 
look on rhem, as she passed on with an unaching 
heart into the house of God. All but one died, — 
and better had it been if that one had never been 
born. 

“ Father, mother, and son now come to man’s 
estate, survived, and in the house there was peace. 
But suddenly poverty fell upon them. The dis- 
honesty of a kinsman, of which I need not state 
the particulars, robbed them of their few hereditary 
fields, which now passed into the possession of a 
stranger. They, however, remained as tenants in 
die house which had been their own ; and for a 
while, father and son bore the change of fortune 
seemingly undismayed, and toiled as common la- 
bourers on the soil still dearly beloved. At the 
dawn of light they went out together, and at twi- 
light they returned But it seemed as if their in- 
dus ry was in vain. Year after year the old rnan’i 
fttce became more deeply furrowed, and more sel* 

» 4 


158 


THE FORGERS. 


dom was Jie seen to smile ; and his son’s countG* 
nance, once bold and open, was now darkened 
with anger and dissatisfaction. They did not at- 
tend public worship so regularly as they used to 
dc ; when I met them in the fields, or visited then? 
in their dwelling, they looked on me coldly, and 
with altered eyes; and I grieved to think how 
soon ihey both seemed to have forgotten the bless- 
ings Providence had so long permitted them to 
enjoy, and how sullenly they now struggled with 
its decrees. But something worse than poverty 
was now disturbing both their hearts. 

“ The unhappy old man had a brother who at 
this time died, leaving an only son, who had for 
many years abandoned his father’s house, and of 
whom all tidings had long been lost. It was 
thought by many that he had died beyond seas ; 
and none, doubted, that, living or dead, he had 
been disinherited by his stern and unrelenting pa- 
rent. On the day after the funeral, the old man 
produced his brother’s will, by which he became 
heir to all his property, except an annuity to be 
paid to the natural heir, should he ever return. 
Some pitied the prodigal son, who had been disin- 
herited — some blamed the father — some envied 
the good fortune of those who had so ill borne 
adversity. But in a short time the death, the will, 
and the disinherited, were all forgotten, and tlie 
'ost lands being redeemed ; peaee, comfort, and 
happiness were supposed again to be restored to 
the dwelling from which they had so long beer 
banished. 

“ But it was not so. If the furrows on the old 
man’s face were deep before, when he had to toil 
from morning to night, they seemed to have sunk 
into more ghastly trenches, now that the good- 
ness of Providence had restored a genth; shekel 


TUB FORGEUS. 


159 


lo his Jecliiiing years. When seen wandering 
ihrough his fields at even-tide, he looked not like 
the patriarch musing tranquilly on the works and 
ways of Gpd ; and when my eyes met his during 
divine service, which he now again attended with 
scrupulous regularity, I sometimes thought they 
svere suddenly averted in conscious guilt ; or 
closed in hypocritical devotion. I scarcely know 
if I had any suspicion against him in my mind or 
not ; but his high bald head, thin silver hair, and 
countenance with its fine features so intelligent, 
had no longer the same solemn expression which 
they once possessed, and something dark and hid- 
den seemed now to belong to them, which with- 
stood his forced and unnatural smile. The son, 
who, in the days of their former prosperity, had 
been stained by no vice, and who, during their 
harder lot, had kept himself aloof from all his 
former companions, now became dissolute and 
profligate, nor did he meet with any reproof from 
a father whose heart would once have burst asun- 
der at ojie act of wickedness in his beloved child. 

“ About three years after the death of his father, 
the disinherited son returned to his native parish. 
He had been a sailor on board various ships on 
foreign stations — but hearing by chance of his 
father’s death, he came to claim his inheritance. 
Having heard, on his arrival, that his uncle had 
succeeded to the property, he came to me, and 
told me, that the night before he left his home, his 
father stood by his bed-side, kissed him, and said, 
that never more would he own such an undutiful 
son — but that he forgave him all his sins— -at death 
would not defraud him of the pleasant fields that 
had so long belonged to his humble ancestors— 
and hoped to meet reconciled in heaven. ‘My 
lUicle is a villain,’ sa/d he, fiercely, ‘ and ] will cast 


160 


THE FORGEnS. 


anclu)r on the green bank where I played when r 
boy, even if I must first bring his gray head to the 
scaffold !’ 

“ I accompanied him to the house of his uncle. 
It was a dreadfu'. visit. The family had just sat 
down to their frugal mid-day meal ; and the old 
man, though for some years he could have had 
little heart to pray, had just lifted up his hand to 
ask a blessing. Our shadows as we entered the 
door, fell upon the table — and turning his eyes, he 
beheld before him on the floor the man whom he 
fearfully hoped had been buried in the sea. His 
face was indeed, at that moment, most unlike that 
of prayer, but he still held up his lean, shrivelled, 
trembling hand. ‘ Accursed hypocrite,’ cried the 
fierce mariner, ‘ dost thou call down the blessing 
of God on a meal won basely from the orphan ? 
Dut, lo ! God, whom thou hast blasphemed, has 
sent me from the distant isles of the ocean to bring 
thy white head into the hangman’s hands!’ 

“For a moment all was silent — then a loud 
stifled gasping was heard, and she whom you saw 
a little while ago, rose shrieking frcnn her seat, and 
fell down on her knees at the sailor’s feet. The 
terror of that unforgiven crime, now first revealed 
to her knowledge, struck her down to the floor. 
She fixed her bloodless face on bis before whom 
she knelt — but she spoke not a single word. There 
was a sound in her convulsed throat like the death- 
rattle. ‘ I forged the will,’ said the son, advancing 
towards his cousin with a firm step, ‘ my fathei 
could not — I alone am guilty — I alone must die.* 
The wife soon recovered the power of speech, but 
it was so unlike her usual voice, that I scarcely 
thought, at first, the sound proceeded from her 
white quivering lips. ‘ As you hope for mercy al 
Ujc great judgment-day, let the old man make hi« 


THE FORGERS. 


161 


escape — hush, hush, hush — till within a few days 
he has sailed aw'ay in the hold of some ship t* 
America. You surely will not hang an old giay 
headed man of threescore and ten years !’ 

“ The sailor stood silent and frowning. There 
seemed neither pity nor cruelty in his face ; he 
felt himself injured, and looked resolved to right 
himself, happen what would. ‘I say he has forged 
my father’s will. As to escaping, let him escape 
if he can. I do not wish to hang him ; though 1 
have seen better men run up the fore-yard arm 
before now, for only asking their own. But no 
more kneeling, woman — Holla ! where is the old 
man gone V 

“ We all looked ghastly around, and the wretch- 
ed wife and mother, springing to her feet, rushed 
out of the house. We followed, one and all. The 
door of the stable was open, and, the mother and 
son entering, loud shrieks were heard. The miser- 
able old man had slunk out of the room unob- 
seiwed during the passion that had struck all our 
souls, and had endeavoured to commit suicide. 
His own son cut him down, as he hung suspended 
from a rafter in that squalid place, and, carrying 
him in his arms, laid him down upon the green 
bank in front of the house. There he lay with his 
livid face, and blood-shot protruded eyes, till in a 
few minutes, he raised himself up, and tixed them 
upon his wife, who, soon recovering from a faint- 
itjg tit, came shrieking from the mire in which she 
had fallen down. ‘ Poor people !’ said the sailor 
with a gasping voice, ‘ you have suffered enough 
for your crime. Fear nothing ; the worst is now 
passed ; and rather would I sail the seas twenty 
years longer, than add another pang to that old 
man’s heart. Let us be kind to the old man.’ 

“ But it seemed as if a raven had cr#>aked tb« 

14 * 


163 


THE F01U.ER8. 


flircfiil secret all over the remotest places among 
the hills ; for, in an hour, people came flocking 
in from all quarters, and it was seen that conceal- 
ment or escape was no longer possible, and that 
father and son were destined to die together a fel- 
on’s death.” 

Here the pastor’s voice ceased ; and I had heard 
enough to understand the long deep sigh that had 
come moaning from that bowed-down figure be- 
side the solitary well. “ That was the last work 
done by the father and son, and finished the day 
before the fatal discovery of their guilt. It had 
probably been engaged in as a sort of amusement 
to beguile their unhappy minds of ever-anxious 
thoughts, or perhaps as a solitary occupation, at 
which they could unburthen their guilt to one an- 
other undisturbed. Here, no doubt, in the silence 
and solitude, they often felt remorse, perhaps peni- 
tence. They chiselled out their names on that 
slab, as you perceive ; and hither, as duly as the 
morning and evening shadows, comes the ghost 
whom we beheld, and after a prayer for the souls 
of them so tenderly beloved in their innocence, 
and doubtless even more tenderly beloved in their 
guilt and in their graves, she carries to her lonely 
hut the water that helps to preserve her hopeless 
life, from the well dug by dearest hands, now 
mouldered away, both flesh and bone, into the 
dust.” 

After a moment’s silence the old man conti- 
nued, — for he saw that I longed to hear the details 
of that dreadful catastrophe, and his own soul 
icemea .iKewise desirous of renewing its grief,— 
•* The prisoners were condemned : — hope there 
was none. It was known from the moment of 
the verdict — guilty, that they would be executed. 
Petitions were, indeed, signed by many, many 


THE FORGERS. 


16J 


tlioiisands ; but it w^as all in vain ; and the father 
and the son had to prepare themselves for death. 

“ About a week after condemnation I visited 
them in their cell. God forbid I should say that 
they were resigned. Human nature could not re- 
sign itself to such a doom ; and I found the old 
man pacing up and down the stone floor, in his 
clanking chains, with hurried steps, and a counte- 
nance of unspeakable horror. The son was ly- 
ing on his face, upon his bed of straw, and had not 
lifted up his head, as the massy bolts were with- 
drawn, and the door creaked sullenly on its hinges. 
The father fixed his eyes upon me for some time, 
as if I had been a stranger intruding upon his 
misery; and, as soon as he knew me, shut them 
with a deep groan, and pointed to his son. ‘ I 
have murdered William — I have brought my only 
son to the fcaffbld, and I am doomed to hell !’ I 
gently called on the youth by name, but he was 
insensible — he was lying in a fit. ‘I fear he will 
awake out of that fit,’ cried the old man, with a 
broken voice. ‘ They have come upon him every 
day since our condemnation, and sometimes during 
the niffht. It is not fear for himself that brinjis 
them on — for my boy, though guilty, is brave — but 
he continues looking on my face for hours, till at 
last he seems to lose all sense, and falls down in 
strong convulsions, often upon the stone-floor, tih 
he is all covered with blood.’ The old man then 
went up to his son, knelt down, and, putting aside 
the thick clustering hair from his forehead, conti 
nued kissing him for some minutes, with deep 
sobs, but eyes dry as dust. 

“ But why should I recall to my remembrance, 
or describe to you, every hour of anguish that I 
witnessed in that cell 1 For several weeks it wua 
ell agony and despair — the Bible lay unheeded 


164 


THE FORGERS. 


before thtir ghastly eyes — and for them there was 
no consolation. The old man’s soul was fided 
but with one thought — that he had deluded his 
son into sin, death, and eternal punishment. He 
never slept; but visions, terrible as those of sleep, 
seemed often to pass before him, till I have seen 
tlie gray hairs bristle horribly over his temples, and 
big drops of sweat splash down upon the floor. I 
sometimes thought that they would both die before 
the day of execution; but their mortal soruws, 
though they sadly changed both face and frame, 
seemed at last to give a horr**" tmergy to life, and 
every morning that I them, they were 

stronger, and more broaaly awake in the chill si- 
lence of their lonesome prison-house. 

“ I know not how a deep change was at last 
wrought upon their souls, but two days before that 
of execution, on entering their cell, I found them sit- 
ting calm and composed by each other’s side,with the 
Bible open before them. Their faces, though pale 
and haggard, had lost that glare of misery that so 
long had shone about their restless and wandering 
eyes, and they looked like men recovering from a 
long and painful sickness. I almost thought I 
saw something like a faint smile of hope. ‘ God 
has been merciful unto us,’ said the father, with a 
calm voice. — ‘ I must not think that he has forgiven 
my sins, but he has enabled me to look on my 
poor son’s face — to kiss him — to f«jld him in niy 
arms — to pray for him — to fall asleep with him in 
my bosom, as I used often to do in tl»e days of his 
boyhood, when, during the heat of mid-day, 1 
rested from labour below the trees of my own 
farm. We have found resignation at last, and are 
prepared to die.’ 

“There were no transports of deluded enthusi- 
£.8m in the souls of these unhappy men. Thej 


THE FORGER6. 


165 


had never doubted the truth of revealed religion 
although they had fatally disregarded its precepts; 
and now that remorse had given way to penitence 
and nature had become reconciled to the thought 
of inevitable death, the light that had been dark 
ened, but never extinguished in their hearts, rose 
up anew ; and knowing that their souls were im- 
mortal, they humbly put their faith in the mercy 
of their Creator and their Redeemer. 

“It was during that resigned and serene hour, 
that the old man ventured to ask for the mother of 
his poor, unhappy boy. I told him the truth 
calmly, and calmly he heard it all. On the day 
of his condemnation, she had been deprived of 
her reason, and, in the house of a kind friend, 
whose name he blessed, now remained in merciful 
ignorance of all that had befallen, believing her- 
self, indeed, to be a motherless widow, but one 
who had long ago lost her husband, and all her 
children, in the ordinary course of nature. At this 
recital his soul was satisfied. The son said noth- 
ing, but wept long and bitterly. 

“ The day of execution came at last. The 
great city lay still as on the morning of the Sab- 
bath-day ; and all the ordinary business of life 
seemed, by one consent of the many thousand 
hearts beating there, to be suspended. But as the 
hours advanced, the frequent tread of feet was 
heard in every avenue ; the streets began to fill 
with pale, anxious, and impatient faces ; and many 
eyes were turned to the dials on the steeples, 
watching the silent progress of the finger of tune, 
till it should reach the point at which the curtain 
was to be drawn up from before a most mournful 
tragedy. 

“ The hour was faintly heard through the thick 
prison walls by us, who were together for the last 


106 


THE FORGERS. 


time ill the condemned cell. I had administered 
to them the most awful rite of our religion, and 
father and son sat together as silent as death, 
'riie door of the dungeon opened, and several 
persons came in. One of them, who had a shriv- 
elled, bloodless face, and small, red, liery eyes — 
an old man, feeble and tottering, but cruel in his 
decrepitude — laid hold of the son with a cord. 
No resistance was oft'ered ; but, straight and un- 
trembling, stood that tall and beautiful youth, 
while the fiend bound him for execution. At this 
mournful sight, how could I bear to look on his 
father’s face"! Yet thither were mine eyes impel- 
led by the agony that afflicted my commiserating 
soul. During that hideous gaze he was insensible 
of the executioner’s approach towards himself ; 
and all the time that the cords were encircling his 
own arms, he felt them not, — he saw nothing but 
his son standing at last before him, ready for the 
scaffold. 

“ I dimly recollect a long, dark vaulted passage, 
and the echoing tread of footsteps, till all at once we 
stood in a crowded hall, with a thousand eyes fix- 
ed on these two miserable men. How unlike 
were they to all beside ! They sat down together 
within the shadow of death. Prayers were said, 
and a psalm was sung, in which their voices were 
heard to join, with tones that wrung out tears 
from the hardest or the most careless heart. Often 
had I heard those voices singing in my own peace- 
ful church, before evil had disturbed, or misery 
broken them ; — but the last word of the psalm 
was sung, and the hour of their departure was 
come. 

“ They stood at last upon the scaffold. Thaf 
.ong street, that seemed to stretch away intermi- 
D&bly from the old prison-house, was paved with 


THE FORGERS. 


167 


•incovered heads, for the moment tliesf ghosts ap- 
neared, that mighty crowd felt reverei ce for hu- 
man nature so terribly tried, and prayers and 
blessings, passionately ejaculated, or convulsively 
stifled, went hovering over all the multitude, as if 
they feared some great calamity to themselves, 
and felt standing on the first tremor of an eartli- 
quake. 

“It was a most beautiful summer’s day on which 
they were led out to die; and as the old man raised 
his eyes, for the last time, to the sky, the clouds 
lay motionless on that blue, translucent arch, and 
the sun shone joyously over the magnificent hea- 
vens. It seemed a day made for happiness or for 
mercy. But no pardon dropped down from these 
smiling skies, and the vast multitude were not to 
be denied the troubled feast of death. Many who 
now stood there wished they had been in the heart 
of some far-off wood or glen ; there was shrieking 
and fainting, not only among maids, and wives, 
and matrons, who had come there in the mystery 
of their hearts, but men fell down in their strength, 
for it was an overwhelming thing to behold a father 
and his only son now haltered for a shameful 
death. ‘ Is my father with me on the scaffold ? — 
give me his hand, for I see him not.’ I joined 
their hands together, and at that moment the great 
bell in the cathedral tolled, but I am convinced 
neither of them heard the sound. For a moment 
there seemed to be no such thing as sound in the 
world ; — and then all at once the multitude heaved 
like the sea, and uttered a wild, yelling shriek. 
'I'hoir souls were m eternity — and I fear not to 
fcty, not an eternity of grief.” 


168 


THE FAMILY-TKVBT. 


THE FAMILY-TRYST. 

The fire had received an addition of a lar<fe 
Bsh-root and a heap of peats, and was beginning 
rtoth to crackle and blaze ; the hearth-stone was 
tidily swept — the supper table set — and every seat, 
Dench, chair, and stool occupied by its customary 
owner, except the high-backed, carved, antique 
oaken armed-chair belonging exclusively to the 
good man. Innocence, labour, contentment, and 
mirth, were here all assembled together in the 
wide low-roofed kitchen of this sheltered farm- 
house, called, from its situation in a low woody 
dell, The How; and all that was wanting to make 
the happiness complete was Abel Alison himself, 
the master and father of the family. It seemed to 
them that he was rather later than usual in return- 
ing from the city, whither he went every market- 
day. But though it was a boisterous night in 
April, with a good drift of snow going, they had 
no apprehensions whatever of his safety; and when 
they heard the trampling of his horse’s feet on the 
gravel, up sprung half a dozeti creatures of various 
sizes to hail him at the door, and to conduct the 
colt, for so they continued to call a horse now 
about fifteen years old, to his fresh-straw ed stall 
in the byre. All was right — Abel entered with his 
usual smile, his wife helped him off with his great- 
coat, which had a respectable sprinkling of snow^, 
and stiftening of frost ; he assumed his usual seat, 
or, as his youngest son and namesake, who Wiis 
the wit of the family, called it, his throne, and sup- 
per immediately smoking on the board, a blessing 
was said, and a flourish of wooden sjtoons enAied. 

Supper being over, and a contented silence pre- 


THE FAMILY-TRYST. 


169 


railing, w^ith an occasional whispered remark of 
merriment or aftection circling round, Abel Alison 
rested himself with more than his usual formality 
against the back of his chair, and putting on not 
an unhappy, but a grave face, told his wife, and 
family, and servants, all to make up their minds 
to hear some very bad news nearly aifecting them- 
selves. There was something too anxiously seri- 
ous in his look, voice, and attitude, to permit a 
thought of his wishing to startle them for a mo- 
ment by some false alarm. So at once they were 
all hushed — young and old — and turned towards 
their father with fixed countenances and anxious 
eyes. 

“ Wife — and children — there is no need, surely 
to go round about the bush — I will tell you the 
worst in a word. — I am ruined ; — that is to say, 
all my property is lost, — gone, — and we must 
leave the How. There is no help for it — we must 
'eave the How.” 

His vvife’s face grew pale, and for a short space 
she said nothing. A slight convulsive motion 
went over all the circle as if they had been one 
body, or an electric shock had struck them all sit- 
ting toge^lier with locked hands. “ Leave the 
How !” one voice sobbing exclaimed — it was a fe- 
male voice — but it was not repeated, and it was 
uncertain from whom it came. 

“ W'hy, Abel,” — said his wife calmly, who had 
now perfectly recovered herself, “ if we must leave 
the How, we must leave a bonny sheltered sj)ot, 
where we have seen many happy days. But what 
then 1 surely there may be contentment founa 
many a where else besides in this cheerful I'oom, 
and rr3und about our birken banks and braes. 
For mysel, 1 shall not lose a night’s rest at the 
thought, if you, Abel, can bear it — and, God blesi 
l.n 


170 


THE FAMILY-TUYST. 


you, 1 haA't* known you bear a severer blow lhaa 
this !” 

Abel Alison was a free, Avarm-heartecl man, of a 
happy disposition, and always inclined to look at 
every thing in a favourable light. He was also a 
most industrious hard-working man. But he could 
not always say “ nay,” — and what he earned with 
a montli’s toil he had more than once lost by a 
moment’s easy good-nature. He had, some time 
before, imprudently become surety for an ac- 
quaintance, who had no such rightful claim upon 
him — that accpiaintance was a man of no princijde 
— and Abel was now ruined — utterly and irre- 
trievably ruined. Under such circumstances, he 
could not be altogether without self-reproach — Jind 
the kind magnanimity of his wife now brought the 
tear into his eye. “ Ay — ay — I was just the old 
man in that foolish business. I should have re- 
membered you, Alice — and all my bairns. But I 
hope — 1 know you will forgive me — for having 
thus been the means of bringing you all to po- 
verty.” 

Upon this, Abel’s ' eldest son — a young man 
about twenty years of age, stood up, and first look- 
ing with the most respectful tenderness upon his 
father, and witli a cheerful smile upon all around, 
said, “ Father, never more utter these words — 
never more have these thoughts. You have fed 
us, clothed us, educated us, taught us what is our 
duty to God and man. It rests with ourselves to 
practise it. We all love you, father; we are all 
grateful — we would all lay down our lives to save 
yours. But there is no need for that now. What 
has happened 'I Nothing ! Are we not all well — 
all strong — cannot we all work % As God is my 
witness, and knows my heart, I now declare be- 
fore you, father, that this is not a visitation, but It 


THE PAMILY-TUVST. 


171 


l« a blessing. Now it will be tried whether we 
l«vft you, father — whether you have prayed every 
iT’oruing and every niglit for more than twenty 
years for ungrateful children — wJiether your toil 
lU sun, and rain, and snow, lias been thankless 
toil — or whether we will not all rally round youi 
gray head, and find it a pleasant shelter — a smooth 
pillow — and a plenteous board — and with thai 
he unconsciously planted his foot more firmly on 
the floor, and stretched out his right arm, standing 
there a tall, straight, powerful stripling, in whom 
there was visible protection and succour for his 
parents and their declining age. 

One spirit kindled over all ; not a momentary 
flash of enthusiasm, not a mere movement of jiity 
and love towards their father, which might give 
way to dissatisfaction and desjiondency, — but a 
true, deep, clear reconcilement of their souls to their* 
lot, and a resolution not to be shaken in its un- 
quaking power by any hai'dships either in antici- 
pation or reality. Abel Alison saw and felt this, 
and his soul burned within him. “ We shall all 
go to service — no shame in that. But we shall 
have time enough to consider all of these points 
before the term-day. We have some weeks before 
us at the How ; and let us make the most of them. 
Wife, children, are you all happy V' 

“ All — all — all — perfectly happy; happier than 
ever,” — was the general burst of the reply. 

“ Stir up that fire, my merry little Abel,” — said 
the mother, — “ and let us have a good, full, bright 
blaze on your father’s face — God bless him !” 

Abel brandished an immense poker in both 
hands, and after knitting his brows, aiul tlireaten- 
ing to aim a murderous blow oji the temples of 
the beautiful little Alice on her stool close to the 
ingle, and at her father’s feet, a practical joke that 


172 


THE FAMILY-TRYST. 


■eenied infinitely amusing, he gave the great aeii« 
root a thump that sent a thousand sparkling gem« 
up the wide chimney, and then placing the pokei 
under it like a lever, he licisted up the burning 
mass, till a blaze of brightness dazzled all their 
eyes, and made Luath start up from his slumbers 
on the hearth. 

“ Come, Alice,” said the father, “ for we must 
not be cheated out of our music as well as our 
money — let us have your song as usual, my bonny 
linnet — something that suits the season — cheerful 
and mournful at the same time — ‘ Auld lang syne,’ 
or ‘Lochaber no more.’” “I will sing them baith, 
father, first the ane and then the ither — and as 
her sweet silver pipe trilled plaintively along, now 
and then other voices, and among them that of old 
Abel himself, were heard joining in the touching 
hir. 

“ What think you o’ the singing this night — mj 
gude dog, Luath I” quoth little cunning Abel 
taking the dumb creature’s oft'ered paw into his 
hand. “ But do you know, Luath — you greedy 
fellow, who have often stolen my cheese and bread 
on tlte hill when my head was turned — though you 
are no thief either, Luath — I say. Sir, do you know 
that we are all going to be starved 1 Come, here is 
the last mouthful of cake you will ever have all the 
days of your life — henceforth you must eat grass 
like a sheep. Hold your nose — Sir — there — one 
— two — three ! Steady, snap, swallow ! Well 
catched ! Digest that and be thankful.” 

“ Children,” said the old man, “ suppose we 
make a Family-Tryst, which, if we be all alive, let 
us religiously keep — ay — religiously, for it will be 
u day either of fast or of thanksgiving. Let us all 
meet on the term-day, that is. I believe, the twelfth 
of May come a twelve-month, on the green plat ol 


THE FAMILY-TRYST. 


178 


ground beside the Shaw-Linn, in which we have 
for so many years washed our sheep. It is a bon- 
ny, Jown, quiet spot, where nobody will come to 
disturb us. We will all meet together before the 
gloaming, and compare the stones of our year’s 
life and doings, and say our prayers together in 
the open air, and beneath the moon and stars.” 
The proposal was joyfully agreed to by all. 

Family worship was now performed. Abel Ali- 
son prayed as fervently, and with as grateful a heart 
as he had done the night biifore. For his piety 
did not keep an account current of debtor and 
creditor with God. All was God’s — rof his own he 
had nothing. God had chosen to vary to him the 
mode and place of his few remaining years on 
earth. Was that a cause for repining ? God 
had given him health, strength, a loving wife, duti- 
ful children, a good conscience. No palsy had 
stricken him, no fever devoured him, no blindness 
darkened his path. Only a few gray hairs were 
as yet sprinkled among the black. His boys could 
bear being looked at and spoken to in any com- 
pany, gentle or simple ; and his daughters, they 
were like the water lilies, that are serene in the 
calm clear water, but no less serene among the 
black and scowling waves. So Abel Alison and 
all his family lay down on their beds ; and long 
before mid-night they were all fast asleep. 

The time came wlien the farm, the bonny farm 
of the How was given up, and another family took 
possession. Abel’s whole stock was taken by the 
new tenant, who was a good, and honest, and mer- 
ciful man ; at a fair valuation. With the sum 
thus got, Abel paid all his debts — that large fatal 
one — and his few small ones at the Carpenter’s 
shop, the Smithy, and Widow Anderson’s, the 
rreen, gray, black, brown, and white grocer of Uifi 
I."* 


174 


THE FAMILY-TUYST. 


village ; and then he and his family were left with- 
out a shilling. Yet none pitied them ; they were 
above pity. They would all have scorned eithei 
to beg or borrow, for many of their neighbours 
were as poor, and not a great many much richer 
than themselves after all ; and therefore they set 
their cheerful faces against the blast, and it was 
never felt to touch them. The eldest son imme- 
diately hired himself at high wages, for his abilities, 
skill, and strength were well known, as head-ser- 
vant with the richest farmer in the next parish, 
which was famous for its agriculture. The second 
son, who was of an ingenious and thoughtful cast 
jf character, engaged himself as one of the under 
gardeners at Pollock-Castle ; and the third, Abel 
die wag, became a shepherd with an old friend of 
dis father’s, within a few hundred yards of the How. 
The eldest daughter went into service in the fami- 
ly of the Laird of Southfield, one of the most re- 
spectable in the parish. The second was kindly 
taken into the Manse as a nurse to the younger 
children, and a companion to the elder; and Alice, 
who, from her sweet voice, was always called the 
Linnet, became a shepherdess along with her 
brother Abel. The motl>er went to the Hall to 
nianage the dairy — the baronet being a great man 
for cheese and butter — and the father lived with 
her in a small cottage near the Hall-gate, employ- 
ing himself in every kind of work that offered it- 
self, for he was a neat-handed man, and few things, 
out of doors or in came amiss to his fingers, 
whether it required a delicate touch or a strong 
blow. Thus were they all settled to their heart’s 
content before the hedgerows were quite green ; 
and, though somewhat scattered, yet were they all 
within two hours’ journey of each other, and their 
hearts were all as close together as when inhabiting 


THE FAMILY-TRYST. 


m 

the sweet,' lovvn, bird-nest-like cottage of the 

How. 

The year with all its seasons fleeted happily by ; 
the long warm months of summer, when the night 
brings coolness rather than the shut of light; the fit- 
ful, broken, and tempestuous autumn; the winter, 
whose short but severe days of toil in the barn, 
and cheerful fire-side nights, with all their work, 
and all their amusements ; soon, too soon, it is 
often felt, give way to the open weather and active 
life of spring; the busy, working, enlivening spring 
itself, were now flown by, and it was now the day 
of the Family-Tryst, the dear twelfth day of the 
beautiful but capricious month of May. 

Had any one died whose absence would damp 
the joy and hilarity of the b'amily-Tryst, and 
make it a meeting for the shedding of tears? No. 
A kind God had counted the beatings of every 
pulse, and kept the blood of them all in a tranquil 
flow. The year had not passed by without many 
happy greetings; they had met often and often; at 
church, at market, on chance visits at neighbours’ 
houses, and not rarely at the cottage at the Hall-gate. 
There had been nothing deserving the name of 
separation. Yet now that the hour of the Family- 
Tryst was near at hand, all their hearts bounded 
within them, and they saw before them all day tliat 
smooth^ verdant plat, and heard the delightful sound 
of that waterfall. 

The day had been cheerful, both with breezes 
and with sunshine, and not a rain-cloud had shown 
itself in the sky. Towards the afternoon the wind 
fell, and nature became more serenely beautilul 
every minute as the evening was coming on with 
its silent dews. The parents came first to the 
Try sting-place, cheered, as they approached it 
down the woody glen, by the deepening voice of 


176 


THE FAMILY-TRYST. 


the Shaw-linn. Was that small turf-bnilt altar 
and the circular turf-seat that surrounded it, buil 
by fairy hands ? They knew at once that some 
of their happy children had so employed a few 
leisure evening hours, and they sat down on the 
little mound with hearts overflowing with silent — 
perhaps speechless gratitude. 

But they sat not long there by themselves ; be- 
loved faces, at short intervals, came smiling upon 
them ; one through the coppice-wood, where there 
was no path ; another across the meadow ; a 
third appeared with a gladsome shout on the 
clift' of the water-fall, a fourth seemed to rise out 
of the very ground before them ; and last of all 
came, preceded by the sound of laughter and of 
song, with which the calm air was stirred, Abel 
and Alice, the fairies who had reared that green 
grassy altar, and who, from their covert in the 
shade, had been enjoying the gradual assemblage. 
“ Blessings be to our God, not a head is wanting,” 
said the father, unable to contain his tears ; “ this 
night could I die in peace !” 

Little Abel and Alice, who, from their living so 
near the spot, had taken upon themselves the 
whole management of the evening’s ceremonial, 
brought forth from a bush where they had conceal- 
ed them, a basket of bread and cheese, and butter, 
ajar of milk, and another of honey ; and placed 
them upon the turf, as if they had been a rural 
gift to some rural deity. “ I thought you would 
be all hungry,” said Abel, “ after your trudge, and 
as for Simon there, the jolly gardener, he will eat 
all the kibbock himself, if 1 do not keep a sharp 
eye upon him. Simon was always a sure hand 
at a meal. But, Alice, reach me over the milk- 
jar. Ladies and gentlemen, all your very good 
healths ; Our noble selves.” This was felt to be 


THE PAMILV-TRYST. 


177 


feiy fair wit of Abel’s, and there was an end to 
the old man’s tears. 

“ I vote,” quoth Abel, “ that every man (begin- 
ning with myself, who will be the oldest man among 
you when I have lived long enough) give an ac- 
count of himself, and produce whatever of the 
leady rhino he may have made, found, or stolen, 
since he left the How. However, 1 will give way 
to my father ; now for it, father ; let us hear if 
you have been a good boy.” “Will that imp never 
hold his tongue?” cried the mother, making room 
for him at the same time on the turf seat by her 
side ; and beckoning him with a smile, W'hich he 
obeyed, to occupy it. 

“ Well then,” quoth the father, “ I have not 
been sitting with my hands folded, or leaning on 
my elbows. Among other small matters, I have 
helped to lay about half a mile of high road on the 
Macadam plan, across the lang quagmire on the 
Mearns Muir, so that nobody need be sucked in 
there again for fifty years to come at the very 
soonest. With my own single pair of hands .1 
have built about thirty rood of stone dike five feet 
high, with two rows of through-stones, connecting 
Saunders Mill’s garden wall with the fence round 
the Fir Belt. I have delved to some decent pur- 
pose on some half score of neighbours’ kail-yards, 
and clipped the hedges round and straight, not 
forgetting to dock a bit of the tails o’ some o’ the 
peacocks and outlandish birds on that queer auld- 
fashioned terrace at Mallets-Heugh. I cannot 
have mown under some ten braid Scots acres of 
rye-grass and meadow hay together, but finding 
my back stilf in the stooping, I was a stooker and 
a banster on tlie Corn rigs. I have threshed a 
few tlirieves in the minister’s barn — prime oats 
tliey were, for the glebe had been seven years is 


178 


THE FAMILY-TUYST. 


lea. I -lave gone some dozen times to Lesmahago 
for the clear-lowing coals, a drive of forty miles 
back and forward, I’se warrant it. I have felled 
and boughed about forty ash-trees, and lent a hand 
now and then iii the saw-pit. I also let some o’ 
the daylight into the fir wood at Hall-side, and 
made a bonny bit winding walk along the burn- 
side for the young ladies’ feet. So to make a 
long story short, there is a receipt (clap a bit o’ 
turf ou’t, Abel, to keep it frae fleeing off the daisies) 
from the Savings Bank, for twenty-five pounds 
thirteen shillings, signed by Baillie Trumbell’s ain 
hand. That is a sight gude for sair een ! Now, 
Mrs. Alison, for I must give you the title you beai 
at the Hall, what say you V' 

“I have done nothing but superintend the mak- 
ing o’ butter and cheese, the one as rich as Dutch, 
and the other preferable to Stilton. My wages 
are just fifteen pounds, and there they are. Lay 
them down beside yonr father’s receipt. But I 
have more to tell. If ever we are able to take a 
bit farm of our own again, my Lady has promised 
to give me the Ayrshire Hawkie, that yields sixteen 
pints a day for months at a time, o’ real rich milk- 
uess. She would bring twenty pounds in any 
market. So count that thirty-five pounds, my 
bonny bairns. Speak out, my Willy ; no fear but 
you have a good tale to tell.” 

“ There is a receipt for thirty pounds, lent this 
blessed day, al five per cent, to auld Laird Shaw — 
as safe as the ground we tread upon. My wages 
are forty pounds a-year, as you know, and I have 
twice got the first prize at the competition o’ 
ploughmen — thanks to you, father, for that. The 
rest of the money is gone upon fine clothes and 
upon the bonny lasses on Fair-day. Why should 
not we have our enjoyments in this world as well 


THE FAMILY-TRYM. 


179 


as richer folk?” “ God bless you, Willy,” said 
the old man ; “ you would not let me nor your 
mother part with our Sunday’s clothes, when tha* 
crash came upon us, though we were willing tc 
do so, to right all our creditors. You became 
surety for the amount, and you have paid it — 1 
know that. Well — it may not be worth speaking 
about — but it is worth thinking about, Willy, and 
a father need not be ashamed to receive a kindness 
from his own flesh and blood.” 

“ It is my turn now,” said Andrew, the young 
gardener. “ There is twelve pounds — and next 
year it will be twenty. I am to take the flower- 
garden into my own hand — and let the Paisley 
florists look after their pinks, and tulips, and ane- 
mones, or I know where the prizes will come after 
this. There’s a bunch o’ flowers for you, Alice ; 
if you put them in water they will live till the Sab- 
bath-day, and you may put some of them into your 
bonnet. Father, William said he had to thank you 
for his ploughmanshifi — so have I for my garden- 
ing ; and wide and rich as the flower garden is 
that I am to take now under my own hand, do 
you think I will ever love it better, or sa weel, as 
the bit plat on the bank-side, with its bower in the 
corner, the birks hanging ower it without keeping 
olf the sun, and the clear bnrnie wimplingaway atits 
foot? There I first delved with a small spade o* 
my ain — you put the shaft in yourself, father — 
and, trust me, it will be a while before that piece o’ 
^\ood gangs into the fire.” 

“Now for my speech,” said Abel ; “ short and 
sweet is my motto. I like something pithy. Lo, 
and behold, a modiwart’s skin, with five and forty 
shillings in silver ! It goes to my heart to part 
with them. Mind, father, I only lend them to you. 
And if you do not repay them with two .shilling* 


180 


THE FAMILY-TRYST. 


and better of interest next May-day, old style, ] 
will put the affair into the hands of scranky Pate 
Orr, the writer at Tliorny-Bank. But hold ; wil 
you give me what is called heritable security ? — 
that means land, doesn’t it? Well, then, turf is 
land ; and I thus fling down the modiwarf purse 
on the turf, and that is lendinj- money on heritable 
security.” A general laugh rewarded this ebulli- 
tion of genius from Abel, who received such plan 
dits with a face of cunning solemnity, and then 
the eldest daughter meekly tool' up the word and 
said ; “ 3Iy wages were nine pounds — there they 
are !” “ Oh ! ho !” cried Abel “ who gave you, 

Agnes, that bonny, blue-spotted ‘‘ilk handkerchief 
round your neck, and that bonii'^, but gae droll 
pattern’d gown? You had not these at the How; 
may be you got them from your sweetheart;” and 
Agnes blushed in her innocence like the beautiful 
flower, “ Celestial rosy red, love’s proper hue.” 

The little Nourice from the Manse laid down or; 
the turf without speaking, but with a heartsome 
smile, her small wages of four pounds; and, last 
of all, the little, fair-haired, blue-eyed, snowy- 
skinned Alice, the shepherdess, with motion soft 
as light, and with a voice sweet as an air-harp, 
placed her wages, too, beside the rest: “ There is 
a golden guinea; it is to be two next year, and so 
on till I am fifteen. Every little helps.” And her 
father took her to his heart, and kissed her glisten- 
ing ringlets, and her smiling eyes, that happily 
shut beneath the touch of bis loving lips. 

By this time the sun had declined ; and the 
sweet, sober gloaming, was about to melt into the 
somewhat darker beauty of a summer night. The 
air was now still and silent, as if unseen creatures 
that liad been busy there had all gone to rest. The 
mavis, that had been singing loud and me flow 


THB FAMILY-TRYST. 


18 


»ti<l clear, on tlie liigliest point of a larch, no« and 
then heard by the party in their happiness, had 
ditted dowr to be near his mate on lier nest w-itJun 
the nollow root of an old, ivy-wreathed ycw-trce 
The snow-white coney looked out from the cop 
pice, and bendino- his long ears towards the laugh- 
ing scene, drew back unstartled into the thicket. 
“Nay, nay, Luath,” whispered Abel, pattirg his 
dog, that was between his knees, “you mu^t not 
kill tlic poor bit white rabbit ; but if a maukir. 
would show herself I would let thee take a batth: 
after her through the wood ; for she could oulv 
cock her fud at a’ thy yelping, and land thee in 
net o’ briers, to scratch thy hide and tangle thy tipi 
in. You canna catch a maukin, Luatli ; they’ie 
ower soojile for you, you fat, la/.y tyke.” 

The old man now addressed his children with a 
fervent voice, and told them tluit their dutiful behii 
viour to him, their industrious habits, their moral 
conduct in general, and tludr regard to their reli 
gious duties, all made them a blessing to him, foi 
which he never could be sulficiently thankful to 
the Giver of all mercies. “ Money,” said he “ is 
well called the root of all evil, but not so now. 
There it lies, upon that turf, an offering from poor 
children to their poor parents. It is a beautiful 
Bight, my bairns ; but your parents need it not. 
They have enough. May God forever bless yon, 
my dear bairns. That night at the IIow, I said 
this meeting would be either a fast ora thanksgiv- 
*ing ; and that we would jiraise God with a prayer 
and also the voice of psalms. No house is near; 
no path by which any one will be coming at this 
quiet hour So let us worship our 3Iaker: here is 
the Bible.” 

“ Father,” said the eldest so i, “ will you wait a 
few minutes ; for 1 am every moment expecting 


182 


THE FAMILY-TRYST. 


cwo dear friends to join usi Listen... I hear fool 
steps, and the sound of voices round tlie corner of 
the coppice. They are at hand.” 

A beautiful young woman, dressed almost in 
the same manner as a farmer’s daughter, but with 
a sort of sylvan grace about her, that seemed to 
denote a somewhat higher station, now appeared, 
along with a youth, who might be her brother. 
Kindly greetings were interchanged, and room 
being made for them, they formed part of the cir- 
cle round the altar of turf. A sweet surprise was 
in tlie hearts of the party at this addition to their 
number, and every face brightened with a new de- 
liifbt. “ That is bonny Sally Mather of the Burn- 
House,” whispered little Alice to her brother Abel. 
“ She passed me ae day on the brae, and made 
me the present of a comb for my hair, you ken, 
when you happened to be on the ither side o’ the 
wood ! Oh ! Abel, has nae slie the bonniest and 
the sweetest een that ever you saw smile 1” 

This young woman, who appeared justly so 
beautiful in the eyes of little Alice, was even more 
so in those of her eldest brother. She was sitting 
at his side, and the wide earth did not contain two 
happier human beings than these humble, virtuous, 
and sincere lovers. Sally Mather was the beauty 
of the parish ; and she was also an heiress, or 
rather now the owner of the Burn-House, a farm 
worth about a hundred a-year, and one of the 
pleasantest situations in a parish remarkable for 
the picturesque and romantic character of its 
scenery. She had received a much better educa- 
tion than young women generally do in her rank 
of life, her fiither having been a common fanner, 
but, by successful skill and industry, having been 
enabled, in the decline of life, to purchase the 
farm which he had improved to such a pitch of 


THE PAMFLY-TRYST. 


189 


beautiful cultivation. Her heart William Alison 
had won ; and now she had been for some days 
betrothed to him as his bride. He now informed 
his parents, and all his brothers and sisters of this; 
and proud was he, and better than ])roud, when 
they all bade God bless her, and when his fatJier 
and mother took her each by the hand, and kissed 
her, and wept over her in the fulness of their ex- 
ceeding joy. 

“We are to be married at midsummer; and, 
father and mother, before the winter sets in, there 
shall be a dwelling ready for you, not quite so 
roomy as our old house at the How, but a bonny 
bield for you,' I hope, for many a year to come. 
It is not a quarter of a mile from our own house, 
and we shall not cliarge you a high rent for it, and 
the two or three fields about it. You shall be a 
farmer again, father, and no fear of ever being 
turned out again, be the lease short or long.” 

Fair Sally Mather Joined her lover in this re- 
quest with her kindly smiling eyes, and what greater 
happiness could there be to such parents than to 
think of passing the remainder of their declining 
life near such a son, and such a pleasant being as 
their new daughter? “Abel and I,” cried little 
Alice, unable to repress her joyful affection, “will 
live with you again — f will do all the work about 
the house that J am strong enough for, and Abel, 
you ken, is as busy as the unwearied bee, and will 
heij) my father about the fields, better and better 
every year. JMay we come home to you from 
service, Abel and 1 “ Are you not happy enough 

where you are ?” asked the mother, with a loving 
voice. “ Happy or not hap])y,” quoth Abel, 
“ home we come at the term, as sure as that is 
the cuckoo Hearken how the dunce keeps repeat- 
ing his own name, as if any body did not know if 


184 


THE FAMILY-TRYST. 


already. Yonder he goes — with iiis titling at liia 
tail — people talk of the cuckoo never being seen; 
why I cannot open my eyes without seeing either 
him or his wife. Well, as I was saying — failrer — 
home Alice an 1 I come at the term. Pray, what 
wages ?” 

liut wliat brought the young Laird of Southfield 
here 1 thought the mother — while a dim and re- 
mote suspicion, too pleasant, too happy, to be true, 
passed across her maternal heart. Her sweet 
Agnes was a servant in his father’s house — and 
though that father was a laird, and lived on his 
own land, yet he was in the very same condition 
of life as lier husband, Abel Alison — they had oft- 
en sat at each other’s table — and her bonny 
daughter was come of an honest kind, and would 
not disgrace any husband either in his own house, 
or a neighbour’s, or in his seat in the kirk. Sucli 
passing thoughts were thickening in the mother’s 
breast, and perl)aps not wholly unknown also to 
the father’s, when the young man, looking towards 
Agnes, who could not lift up her eyes from the 
ground, said, “ My father is willing and happy 
that I should marry the daughter of Abel Alison. 
For he wishes me no other wife than the virtuous 
daughter of an honest man. And I will be happy 
— ^if my Agnes make as gt)od a wife as her mo- 
ther.” 

A {)erfect blessedness now filled the souls of 
Abel Alison and his wife. One year ago, and 
they were, what is called, utterly ruined — tliev put 
their trust in God — and now they received their 
reward, liut their pious and humble hearts did 
not feel it to be a reward, for in themselves they 
were conscious of no desert. The joy came from 
heaven, undeserved oy them, and with silent 


THE FAMILY-TUYST. 


186 


ihanksgiving and adoration did they receive it, 
like dew into their opening spirits. 

“ Rise up, Alice, and let us have a dance,” and 
with these words little Abel caught his unreluctant 
sister round the waist, and whirled her off into the 
open green, as smooth as a floor. The young 
gardener took from his pocket a German flute, 
and began warbling away, with much flourishing 
execution, the gav avely air of “ Oure the water 
to Charlie,” ana the happy children, who had 
oeen one winter at the dancing school, and had 
often danced by themselves on the fairy rings on 
the hill-side, glided through the gloaming in all 
the mazes of a voluntary and extemporaneous duet. 
And then, descending suddenly and beautifully 
from the very height of glee ihto a composed glad- 
ness, left oft’ the dance in a moment, and again 
seated themselves in the applauding circle. 

“ I have dropped my library out of my pocket,” 
said Abel, springing up again ; “yonder it is lying 
on the green. That last touch of the Highland 
Fling jerked it out. Here it is ; bonny Robbie 
Burns, the Twa Dogs, the Vision, the Cotter’s 
Saturday Night, and many, many a gay sang — 
and some sad anes, which I will leave to Alice 
there, and other bits o’ tender-hearted lassies; but 
fun and frolic for my money.” 

“ I would not give my copy o’ Allan Ramsay, 
replied Alice, “ for a stall fu’ of Burns’s ; at least 
gin the Saturday Night was clipped out. When 
did he ever nndie sic a poem as the Gentle Shep- 
Iterd ? Tell me that, Abel ? Dear me but is rm 
this sweet quiet place, and the linn there, and the 
trees, and this green plat, just as bonnie as Hab- 
bie’s How ? Might na a bonny poem be made 
just about ourselves a’ sitting here sae happy — and 
uiy brother going to marry bonny Sally Mather 


186 


THE FAMILY-TRVST. 


and niy sister the young laird o’ Soutlifield 1 I’sa 
warrant, if Allan Ramsay had been ;ilivc, and on« 
of the ])arty, he would have put us a’ into a poem ; 
and aiblins called it the Family-Tryst.” “I will do 
(hat myself,” said Abel ; “ I am a dab at verse. 1 
made some capital ones yesterday a' ernoon ; 1 
wrote them down on my slate below the sum tt»- 
tal ; but some crumbs had fallen out o’ my pouch 
on the slate, and Luath, licking them up, licked 
out a’ my fine poems. I could greet to think o’t.” 

But now the moon showed her dazzling cres- 
cent right over their heads, as if she had issued 
gleaming forth from the deep blue of that very 
spot of heaven in which she hung; and fainter oi 
brighter, far and wide over the firmament, >vas 
seeti tlie great host of stars. The old man reve- 
rently uncovered his head ; and looking up to the 
diffused brilliancy of the magnificent arch of 
heaven, he solemnly exclaimed, “ The heavens 
declare the glory of God ; and tho firmament 
showeth forth his handywork. Day unto day ut- 
tereth speech, and night unto night show^eth know- 
ledge. My children, let us kneel down and pray.” 
They did so ; and, on rising from that prayer, the 
mother, looking towards her husband, said, “ 1 
have been young, and now' I am old ; yet have 1 
not seen the rigiiteous forsaken, nor his seed beg- 
ging bread.” 


RLIND ALLAN. 




BLIND ALLAN 

Allan Bkuce and Fanny RAEnuRN were in no 
respect remarkable among the simple inhabitants 
of the village in which they were horn. They 
both bore a fair reputation in the parisn, and they 
were both beloved by their own friends and rela- 
tions. He was sober, honest, active, and indus- 
trious ; exemplary in the common duties of pri- 
vate life ; possessed of the humble virtues becom- 
ing his humble condition, and unstained by any 
of those gross vices that sometimes deform the 
character of the poor. She was modest, good- 
tempered, contented, and religious — and much is 
contained in these four words. Beauty she was 
not thought to possess ; nor did she attract atten- 
tion ; but whatever charm resides in pure health, 
innocence of heart, and simplicity of manners, 
tlmt belonged to Fanny Raeburn ; while there 
was nothing either about her face or tigure to pre- 
vent her seeming even beautiful in the eyes of a 
lover. 

These two humble and happy persons were be- 
trothed in marriage. Their affection had insensi- 
bly grown without any courtshij), for they ha(f 
lived daily in each other’s sight ; and, undisturbed 
by jealousy or rivalry, by agitating hopes or de- 
pressing fears, their hearts had been tenderly uni- 
ted long before their troth was solemnly pledged; 
and they now looked forward with a calm and ra- 
tional satisfaction to the happy years which they 
hnmbly hoped might be stored up for them by a 
kountiful Providence. Their love was without 
riunance, but it was warm, tender, and true ; they 
were prepared by its strength to make any sacri 


188 


BLIND ALLAN. 


fice for each otlier’s sake ; and, liad death lakeii 
away either of them before the wedding-day, the 
survivor might not perhaps have been clamorous 
in grief, or visited the grave of the dej>arted with 
nightly lamentations, but not the less wcmld that 
grief have been sincere, and not the less faithful 
would memory have been to all the images of the 
past. 

Their marriage-day was fixed — and Allan Bruce 
had renteil a small cottage, with a garden sloping 
down to the stream that cheered his native village. 
Tliiiher, in about two months, he was to take his 
sweet and affectionate Fanny; she was to work 
with her needle as before ; and he in the fields. 
No change was to take place in their lives, but a 
change from contentment to happiness ; and if 
God prolonged to them the possession of health, 
and blessed them with children, they feared not to 
bring them decently up, and to afford sunshine and 
shelter to the living flowers that might come to 
gladden their house. Such thoughts visited the 
souls of the lovers, — and they were becoming 
dearer and dearer to one another every hour that 
brought them closer to their marriage-day. 

At this time Allan began to feel a slight dimness 
in his sight, of which he did not take much notice, 
attributing it to some itidispositioti brought on by 
the severity of his winter’s work. For he had 
toiled late and early, during all weatliers, and at 
every kind of labour, to gain a sum sufficient to 
furnish respectably his lowly dwelling, and also 
to array his sweet bride in wedding-clothes of which 
she should not need to be ashamed. The dimness, 
liowever, each succeeding day, darkened and 
deepened, till even his Fanny’s face was indis- 
tinctly discerned by him, and he lost altogether 
Uie smile which never failed to brighten it when 


BLIND ALLAN. 


180 

ever he appeared. Then he became sad and 
dispirited, for the fear of blindness fell upon him, 
and he thought of his steps being led in his help- 
lessness by the hand of a child. He prayed to 
God to avert this calamity from him — hut if not, 
to bestow upon him the virtue of resignation. lie 
thought of the difl'erent blind men whom he had 
known, and, as far as he knew, they all seemed 
happy. Tluit belief pacified his soul, when it was 
about to give way to a passionate despair ; and 
every morning at sunrise, when the fast advanc- 
ing verdure of spring seemed more dim and glim- 
mering before his eyes, he felt his soul more and 
more resigned to that final extinction of the day’s 
blessed light, wdiich he knew must be his doom 
before the earth was covered with the flowers and 
fragrance of June. 

It was as he had feared ; and Allan Bruce was 
now stone-blind. Fanny’s voice had always been 
sweet to his ear, and now it was sweeter still when 
heard in the darkness. Sweet had been the kisses 
which breathed from Fanny’s lips, while his eyes 
delighted in their rosy freshness. But sweeter 
were they now when they touched his eyelids, and 
he felt upon his checks her fast trickling tears. 
She visited him in In. father’s house, and led him 
with her gently guiding hands into the adjacent 
fields, and down along the stream which he said 
he liked to hear murmuring by ; and then they 
talked together about themselves, and on their 
knees prayed to God to counsel them what to dc 
in their distress. 

These meetings were always haj)py meetings 
to them both, notwithstanding the many mournfu. 
thoughts with which they were necessarily attend- 
ed ; but to Allan Bruce they yielded a support 
that did not forsake him in his hours of uncom- 


11)0 


BLIND ALLAN. 


panioued darkness. His love, which had formerly 
been joyful in the warmth of youth, and in the 
near prospect of enjoyment, was now clxastened 
by the sad sense of his unfortunate condition, and 
rendered thereby a deep and devout emotion which 
had its comfort in its own unwitnessed privacy 
and imperishable truth. The tones of his Fanny’s 
voice were with him on his midnight bed, when 
his affliction was like to overcome his fortitude ; 
and to know that he was still tenderly beloved by 
that gentle and innocent friend, was a thought that 
gave light to darkness, and suffered sleep to fall 
balmily on lids that shut up eyes already dark as 
in profoundest slumber. The meek fold of her 
pitying embr.ace was with him in the vague uncer- 
tainty of his dreams ; and often he saw faces in 
his sleep beaming consolation upon him, that al- 
ways assumed at last Fanny’s features, and as 
they grew more distinct, brightened up into a per- 
fect likeness of his own faithful and disinterested 
maiden. He lay down with her image, because it 
was in his evening prayers ; he rose up with her 
image, or it came gliding in upon him, as he knelt 
down at his bed-side in the warm beams of the 
unseen morning light. 

Allan and Fanny were children of poor parents; 
and when he became blind, they, and indeed all 
their friends and relations, set their faces against 
this marriage. This they did in kindness to them 
both, for prudence is one of the best virtues of the 
poor, and to indulge even the holiest affections of 
our nature, seems to them to he sinful, if an in 
diction from God’s hand intimates that such union 
would lead to sorrow and distress. The same 
thoughts had taken possession of Allan’s own 
soul; and loving Fanny Raeburn, with a perfect 
Affection, why should he wish her, in the bright 


BLIND ALLAN. 


191 


and sunny days of her youthful prime, to become 
chained to a blind man’s steps, kept in constant 
poverty and drudgery for his sake, and imprisoned 
in a lonesome hut, during the freedom of her age, 
and tJie joyfulness of nature ringing over the earth] 
“ It has pleased God,” said the blind man to liim- 
self, “ that our marriage should not be. Let Fan 
ny, if she chooses, some time or other marry an 
other, and be happy.” And as the thought arose, 
!ie felt the bitterest of the cup, and wished that he 
might soon be in his grave. 

For, while his eyes were not thus dark, he saw 
many things that gave him pleasure, besides his 
Fanny, well as he loved her; nor had his been an 
absorbing passion, although most sincere. He 
had often been happy at his work, with his com- 
panions, in the amusements of his age and condi- 
tion, with the members of his own family, without 
thinking even of his dear Fanny Raeburn. She 
was not often, to be sure, entirely out of his 
thoughts, for the consciousness of loving her, and 
of being beloved, accompanied his steps, although 
he scarcely knew it, just as one who lives on a 
lake side, or by the murmur of a stream, may feel 
the brightness and the shadows of the one, and 
hear the constant music of the other, mingling as 
a remembrance or a dream with the impressions, 
thoughts, passions, and feelings of his ordinary 
human life. But now, what had been less pleas- 
ant or necessary to him all faded away, and he 
saw in his darkness one image only — Fanny Rae- 
burn — he heard in his darkness one sound only — 
Fanny Raeburn’s voice. Was she to smile in an- 
other man’s house 1 Surely that could not be ; 
for her smiles were ms, and to transfer them to 
another seemed to him to be as impossible as for 
G mother to forget her own children, and j>ouT 


192 


BLIND ALLAN. 


mth equal fondness her smiles upon the face of 
another who belonged not to her blood. Yet such 
transference, such forgetfulness, such sad change 
had been, that he well knew, even in “ the short 
and simple annals of the poor,” which alone he 
had read ; and who would blame, who would pity, 
who w'ould remember the case of the deserted and 
forsaken jioor blind man ? 

Fanny Raeburn had always been a dutiful child, 
and she listened to the arguments of her parents 
with a heavy but composed heart. She was will- 
ing to obey them in all things in which it was her 
duty to obey — but here she knew not w’hat was 
her duty. To give up Allan Bruce was a thought 
far worse to her than to give up life. It was to 
Sutter her heart-strings to be hourly torn up by 
the roots. If the twm were willing to be married, 
why should any one else interfere 1 If God had 
stricken Allan with blindness after their marriage, 
would any one have counselled her to leave him 1 
Or pitied her because she had to live with her own 
blind husbaiKn Or w^ould the fear of poverty 
liave benumbed her feelings'? Or rather, W'ould it 
not have given new alacrity to her hands, and new 
courage to her heart 1 So she resolved, meekly 
and calmly, to tell Allan that she w ould be his 
wife, and that she believed that such was, in spite 
of this inttiction, the will of God. 

Allan Bruce did not absent himself, in his blind- 
ness, from the house of God. One Sabbath, aftet 
divine service, Fanny went up to him in the church- 
yard, and putting her arm in his, they walked 
away together, seemingly as cheerful as the rest 
of the congregation, only with somewhat slower 
and more cautious steps. They proceeded along 
the quiet meadow-fields by the banks of the stream, 
aad then across the smooth green brats, till tiiey 


BLINC ALLAN. 


193 


gently descerulod into a holm, and sat down to- 
gether in a little green bower, which a few ha/.els, 
mingling with one tall weeping birch, had of 
themselves framed ; a place where they had often 
met before Allan was blind, and where they had 
first spoken of a wedded life. Fanny could have 
almost wept to see the earth, and the sky, and the 
whole day, so beautiful, now that Allan’s eyes 
were dark ; but he whispered to her, that the smell 
of the budding trees, and of the primroses that he 
knew were near his feet, was pleasant indeed, and 
thu.* the singing of all the little birds made his 
heart u. ^ce within him — so Fanny sat beside her 
blind lover, in serene happiness, and felt strength- 
ened in her conviction that it was her duty to be- 
come his wife. 

“ Allan — I love you so entirely — that to see you 
happy is all that I desire on earth. Till God made 
you blind, Allan, I knew not how my soul could 
be knit unto yours ; I knew not the love that was 
in my heart. To sit by you with my work — to 
lead you out thus on pleasant Sabbaths — to take 
care that your feet do not stumble — and that no- 
thing shall ever ofter violence to your face — to 
suffer no solitude to surround you — but that you 
may know, in your darkness, that mine eyes, 
which God still permits to see, are always ui)on 
you — for these ends, Allan, I will marry thee, my 
beloved — thou must not say nay — for God would 
not forgive me if I became not thy wife.” And 
Fanny fell upon his neck aJid wept. 

There was something in the quiet tone of her 
voice ; something in the meek fold of her embrace; 
something in tl e long weeping kiss that she kept 
breathing tend rly over his brow and eyes, that 
justified to the blind man his marriage with such 
a woman. “ Let us be married, Fanny, on tbi 


194 


BLIND ALLAN. 


day fixed before I lost my sight. T.Il now I 
knew not fully either your heart or my own; now 
I fear nothing. Would, my best friend, I could 
but see thy sweet face for one single moment now 
—but that can never be !” “ All things ar^ , possi- 

ble to God ; and although to human skiII your 
case is hopeless, it is not utterly so to my heart ; 
yet if ever it becomes so, Allan, then will I love 
thee better even than I do now, if indeed my heart 
can contain more affection than that with which it 
now overflows.” 

Allan Bruce and Fanny Raeburn were married. 
And although there was felt, by the most careless 
heart, to be something sad and solemn in such nup- 
tials, yet Allan made his marriage-day one of 
sober cheerfulness in his native village. Fanny 
v/ore her white ribands in the very way that used 
to be pleasant to Allan’s eyes ; and blind as he 
now was, these eyes kindled with a joyful smile, 
when he turned the cleai sightless orbs towards 
his bride, and saw her within his soul arrayed in 
the simple white dress which he heard all about 
him saying so well became her sweet looks. Her 
relations and his own partook of the marriage-feast 
in their cottage ; there was the sound of music 
and dancing feet on the little green plat at the foot 
of the garden, by the river’s side; the bride’s 
youngest sister, who was henceforth to be an in- 
mate in the house, remained when the party went 
away in the quiet of the evening — and peace, con- 
tentment, and love, folded their wings together 
over that humble dwelling. 

From that day Allan and his wife were; pe; fect- 
ly happy, and they could not helj) wondering at 
their former fears. There was, at once, a genera 
determination formed all over the parish to do 
them every benefit. Fanny, who had always btieq 


BLIND ALLA V. 


m 


Jistiiiffuishtd for her skill and fancy as a seir.jv 
stress, became now quite the fashionable dress< 
maker of the village, and had more employment 
offered than she could accept. So that her indus- 
try alone was more than sufficient for all their 
present wants. But Allan, though blind, was not 
idle. He immediately began to instruct himself 
in various departments of a blind man’s work. A 
loom was purchased ; and in a few weeks he was 
heard singing to the sound of his fly-shuttle as 
merry as the bulfinch in the cage that hung at the 
low window of his room. He was not long in 
finding out the way of plaiting rusli-rugs and 
wicker-baskets, the figures of all of which were 
soon, as it were, visible through his very fingers ; 
and before six months were over, Allan Bruce and 
his wife were said to be getting rich, and a warm 
blessing broke from every heart upon them, and 
their virtuous and unrepining industry. 

Allan had always been fond of music, and his 
voice was the finest tenor in all the kirk. So he 
began in the evenings of winter to teach a school 
for sacred music ; and thus every hour was turned 
to account. Allan repined not now ; nay, at 
times he felt as if his blindness were a blessing, 
for it forced him to trust to his own soul — to turr 
for comfort to the best and purest human affec 
tions — and to see God always. 

Whatever misgivings of mind Allan Bruce miglu 
have experienced — wliatever faintings and sicken- 
ings and deadly swoons of despair might have 
overcome his heart, — it was not long before he 
was a freed man from all their slavery. He was 
not immured, like many as worthy as he, in an 
asylum ; he was not an incumbrance upon a 
poor father, siting idle and in the way of others, 
beside an ill-fed fire and a scanty board ; he w*ju 


im 


BLIND ALLAN. 


not forced to pace step by step along the lamp- 
lighted streets and squares of a city, forcing Dll', 
beautiful music to gain a few pieces of coin from 
passers by entranced fora moment by sweet sounds 
plaintire or jocund ; he was not a boy-led beggar 
along the highway under the sickening sunshine 
or the chilling sleet, with an abject hat abjectly 
protruded with a cold heart for colder charity ; — 
but he was, although he humbly felt and acknovv- 
leged that he was in nothing more worthy than 
these, a man loaded with many blessings, warmed 
by a constant ingle, laughed round by a dock of 
joyful children, love-tended and love-lighted by a 
wife who was to him at once music and radiance 
— while his hous ' stood in the middle of a villa<fe 
of which all the i habitants were his friends, and 
of all whose hand the knock was known when it 
touched his door, and of all whose voices the 
tone was felt whei it kindly accosted him in the 
wood, in the field, in the garden, by the river’s 
side, by the hospita le board of a neighbour, or in 
the church-yard as emblage before entering into 
the house of God 

Thus did years pass along. Children were 
born to them — lived — were healthy — and well-be- 
haved. A blessing rested upon them and all that 
belonged to them, and the name of “ Blind Allan’ 
carried with it far and near an authority that could 
belong only to virtue, piety, and faith tried by afflic- 
Uou and found to stand fast. 

Ten years ago, when they married, Allan Bruce 
and Fanny Raeburn were among the poorest of 
the poor, and had it pleased God to send sickness 
among them, hard had been their lot. But now 
they lived in a better house — with a larger garden 
—and a few fields, with two cows of their own. 
Allan had workmen under him, a basket-iaakei 


BLIND AI.LAN 


107 


now on a considerable scale — and Ins wife had hei 
apprentices too, the best dress-maker all the coun- 
try round. They were rich. Their children were 
at sc' uol, — and all things, belonging both to outei 
an . inner life, had prospered to their hearts’ desire. 
Allan could walk about many familiar places un- 
attended ; but that seldom happened, for while his 
children were at school he was engaged in his 
business ; and when they came home, there 
was always a loving contest among them who 
>hould be allowed to take hold of their father’s 
hand Avhen he went out on his evening walk. 
Well did he know the tread of each loving crea- 
ture’s footstej) — their very breath when their voices 
were silent. One touch of a head as it danced 
past him, or remained motionless by his side — one 
pressure of an arm upon his knee — one laugh 
from a corner, was enough to tell him Avhich of his 
children was there ; and in their most confused 
noise and merriment, his ear would have known 
if one romping imp had been away. So perfect- 
ly accustomed had he long been to his situation, 
that it might almost be said that he was uncon- 
scious of being blind, or that he had forgotten that 
his eyes once saw. Long had Allan Bruce in- 
deed been the happiest of the blind. 

It chanced, at this time, that among a party 
who were visiting his straw manufactory, there 
was a surgeon celebrated for his skill in operations 
upon the eye, who expressed an opinion that Al- 
lan’s sight might be at least partially restored, and 
offered not only to perform the operation, but if 
Allan Avould reside for some weeks in Edinburgh, 
to see him every day, till it Avas knoAvn Avhether 
his case Avas or was not a hopeless one. 

Allan’s circumstances Avcre noAV such ns to make 
• few weeks’ or even months’ confinement cf no 


BLI^^> ALLAN. 


tgg 

importance to him; and though he said to his wife 
that he was averse to submit to an operation tha* 
might disturb the long-formed quie. and content- 
ment of his mind by hopes never to be renMzed, 
yet those hopes of once more seeing Heav^ n’<j 
dear light gradually removed all his repugnance. 
His eyes were couched, and when the bandages 
were removed, and the soft broken light let in up- 
on him, Allan Bruce was no longer among the 
number of the blind. 

There was no uncontrollable burst of joy in the 
soul of Allan Bruce when once more a communi- 
cation was opened between it and the visible world, 
— for he had learned lessons of humility and tem- 
perance in all his emotions during ten years of 
blindness, in which the hope of light was too faint 
to deserve the name. He was almost afraid to 
believe that his sight was restored. Grateful to 
him was its first uncertain and wavering glimmer, 
as a draught of water to a wretch in a crowded 
dungeon. But he knew not whether it was to ripen 
into the perfect day, or gradually to fade back 
again into the depth of his former darkness. 

But when his Fanny — she on whom he had so 
loved to look when she was a maiden in her teens, 
and who would not forsake him in the first misery 
of that great affliction, but had been overjoyed to 
link the sweet freedom of her prime to one sitting 
m perpetual dark — when she, now a staid and 
lovely matron, stood before him with a face pale 
in bliss, and all drenched in the flood-like tears of 
an unsupportable happiness — then truly did he feel 
what a heaven it was to see ! And as he took her 
to his heart, he gently bent back her head, that he 
might devour with his eyes that benign beauty 
which had for so many years smUed upon him uu« 
beheld, and which uoW that he had seen one* 


BI.IND ALLAN. 


!<)!? 

more, he felt that he could even at that very mo- 
ment die in peace. 

In came with soft steps, one after another, his 
five loving children, that for the first time they 
might be seen by their father. The girls advanced 
timidly, with blushing cheeks and bright shining 
hair, while the boys went boldly up to his side, and 
the eldest, looking in his face, exclaimed with a 
shout of joy, “ Our fither sees ! our father sees!” 
and then checking his rajiture, burst into tears. 
Many a vision had Allan Bruce framed to himself 
of the face and figure of one and all of his chil- 
dren. One, he had been told, was like himself ; 
another, the image of its mother ; and Lucy, he 
understood, was a blended likeness of them both. 
But now he looked upon them with the confused 
and bewildered joy of parental love, seeking to 
know and distinguish in the light the separate ob- 
jects towards whom it yearned ; and not till they 
spoke did he know their Christian names. But 
soon, soon did the sweet faces of all his children 
seem, to his eyes, to answer well, each in its dif- 
ferent loveliness, to the expression of the voices so 
long familiar to his heart. 

Pleasant, too, no doubt, was that expansion of 
heart, that followed the sight of so mony old 
iriends and acquaintances, all of whom, familiar 
as he had long been with them in his darkness, 
one day’s light now seemed to bring farther for- 
ward in his affection. They came towards him 
now with brighter satisfaction- -and the haj)piness 
of his own soul gave a kinder expression to their 
demeanour, and represented them all as a host of 
human beings rejoicing in the joy of one si-igle 
brother. Here was a young man, who, when he 
naw him last, was a little school-boy — here a man 
beginning to be bent with t )il, and with a thought 


200 


BLIND ALLAN. 


ful aspect, who had been one of his owi. joyoai 
and laujrhinff fellow-labourers in field or ac fair— 
here a man on whom, ten years before, he had 
shut his eyes, in advanced but vigorous life, now 
silting, with a white head, and sujiported on a stall 
— all this change he knew before, but now he saw 
it; and there was thus a somewhat sad, but an in- 
teresting, delightful, and impressive contrast and 
resemblance between the past and the present, 
brought immediately before him by the removal ol 
a veil. Every face around him — every figure — 
*vas instructive as well as pleasant; and humble 
as his sphere of life was, and limited its range, 
quite enough of chance and change was now sub- 
mitted to his meditation, to give his character, 
which had long been thoughtful, a still more so- 
lemn cast, and a temjjer of still more homely and 
humble wisdom. 

Nor did all the addition to his happiness come 
from human life. Once moz’e he saw the heavens 
and the earth. By men in his lowly condition, na- 
ture is not looked on very often perhaps with po- 
etical eyes. But all the objects of nature are in 
themselves necessarily agreeable and delightful ; 
and the very colours and forms he now saw tilled 
his soul with bliss. Not for ten dark years had he 
seen a cloud, and now they were piled up like 
castles in the summer heaven. Not for ten dark 
years had he seen the vaulted sky, and there it 
was now bending majestically in its dark, deep, 
serene azure, full of tenderness, beauty, and pow- 
er. The green earth, with all its llowers, was 
now visible beneath his feet. A hundred gardens 
blossomed — a hundred hedge-rows ran across the 
meadow and up the sides of the hills — the dark 
grove of sycamore, shading the village church on 
its mount, stood tinged v\ita a glitter of yellow 


BLIND ALLAN. 


201 


iifjht — nnd from one extremity of the rillage totha 
other, calm, fair, and unwavering', the smoke from 
all Its chimneys went up to heaven on the dewy 
morning-air. He felt all this just by opening his 
eyelids. And in his gratitude to God he blessed 
the thatch of his own humble house, and the swal 
lows that were twittering beneath its eaves. 

Such, perhaps, were some of the feelings which 
Allan Bruce experienced on being restored to 
sight. But faint and imperfect must be every pic- 
ture of man’s inner soul. This, however, is true, 
that Allan Bruce now felt that his blindness had 
been to him, in many respects, a blessing. It had 
touched all hearts with kindness towards hij» and 
his wife, when they were i)Oor ; it had kepthls feet 
within the doors of his house, or within the gate 
of his garden, often when they might otherwise 
have wandered into less happy and innocent pla- 
ces ; it turned to him the sole, undivided love of 
his sweet, contented Fanny ; it gave to the filial 
tenderness of his children something of fondest 
passion — and it taught him moderation in all 
things, humility, reverence, and perfect resigna- 
tion to the Divine will. It may therefore, be truly 
said, that when the blameless man once more lift- 
ed uj) his seeing eyes, in all things he beheld God. 

Soon after this time, a small nursery-garden, 
between Roslin and I^asswade, — a bank sloping 
down gently to the Esk — was on sale, and Allan 
Bruce was able to purchase it. Such an employ- 
ment seemed peculiarly fitted for him, and also 
compatible with Ins other profession. He had ac- 
quired, during his blindness, much useful informa- 
tion from the readings of his wife or children ; and 
having been a gardener in his youth, among his 
many other avocalions, he had especially extended 
nis knowledge respecting flowers, shrubs, aod 


203 


LaiAS oniEVE. 


trees. Here he follows that healthy, pleasant, and 
intelligent occupatiorj. Among his other assistant 
gardeners there is one man with a head white af 
snow, but a ruddy and cheerful countenance, who, 
from his self-importance, seems to be the proprie 
tor of the garden. This is Allan’s father, « be 
lives in a small cottage adjoining — takes care of 
all the gardening tools — and is master of the bee- 
hives. His old motlier, too, is sometimes seen 
weeding; but ofiener with her grand-children, 
when in the evenings, after school, they are play- 
ing on the green plat by the Sun-Dial, with flowers 
garlanded round their heads, or feeding the large 
trout in the clear silvery well near the roots of the 
celebrated pear-tree. 


LILIAS GRIEVE. 

There was fear and melancholy in all the glens 
and valleys that lay stretching around, or down 
upon St. Mary’s Loch, for it was the time of re- 
ligious persecution. Many a sweet cottage stood 
untenanted on the hill-side and in the hollow ; 
some had felt the fire and been consumed, and 
violent hands had torn off the turf roof from the 
green shealing of the shepherd. In the wide and 
deep silence and solitariness of the mountains, it 
seemed as if human life was nearly extinct. Cav- 
erns and clefts in winch the fox had kennelled, 
were now the shelter of Christian souls — and 
when a lonely figure crept stealingly from one 
hiding-place to another, on a visit of love to some 
huuted brother in faith, the crews would hovei 


LILIAS GRIEVE. 


203 


over him, hud the hawk shriek at human steps 
now rare in the desert. When the babe was bom 
(here might de none near to baptize it, or the 
minister, driven from his kirk, perhaps poured the 
sacramental water upon its face from some pool 
in the glen, whose rocks guarded the persecuted 
fainiiy fiom the oppressor. Bridals now were 
untrequeiit; and in the solemn sadness of love 
many dicil before their time, of minds sunken and 
of broken hearts. White hair was on heads long 
before they were old ; and the silver locks of an 
cient men were often ruefully soiled in the dust, 
and stained with their martyred blood. 

But this is the dark side of the picture. For, 
even in their caves were these people happy. Their 
children were with them, even like the wild-flowers 
that blossomed all about the entrances of their 
dens. And when the voice of psalms rose up 
from the profound silence of the solitary place of 
rocks, the ear of God was open, and they knew 
that their prayers and praises were heard in Hea 
ven. If a child was born, it belonged unto the 
faithful ; if an old man died, it was in the religion 
of his forefathers. The hidden powers of their 
souls were brought forth into the light, and they 
knew the strength that was in them for these days 
of trial. The thoughtless became sedate — the 
wild were tamed — the unfeeling made compassion- 
ate — hard hearts were softened, and the wicked 
saw the error of their ways. All deep passion 
purifies and strengthens the soul, and so was it 
now. Now was shown and put to the proof, the 
stern, austere, impenetrable strength of men, tha. 
would neither bend nor break — the calm, serene, 
determination of matrons, who, with meekeyes,and 
uiiblanclied checks, met the scowl of the niuidercr 
•^le silent beauty of maidens, who with smiles 


204 


LIMAS GRIEVE. 


received their death — and the mysterious courage 
of children, who, in the inspiration of innocent and 
spotless nature, kneeled down among the dew 
drops on the green sward, and died fearlessly by 
their parents’ sides. Arrested were they at their 
work, or in their play ; and with no other bar 
dage over their eyes, but haply some clustering 
ringlets of their sunny hair, did many a sweet 
creature of twelve summers ask just to be allowed 
to say her prayers, and then go unappalled from 
her cottage-door to the breast of her Redeemer. 

In those days had old Samuel Grieve and his 
spouse suffered sorely for their faith. But they 
left not their own house, willing to die there, or 
to be slaughtered, whenever God should so ap- 
point. They were now childless ; but a little 
grand-daughter, about ten years old, lived with 
them, and she was an orphan. The thought of 
death was so familiar to her, that although some- 
times it gave a slight quaking throb to her heart 
in its gleo, yet it scarcely impaired the natural joy- 
fulness of her girlhood, and often unconsciously, 
after the gravest or the saddest talk with her olil 
parents, would she glide off with a lightsome step, 
a blithe face, and a voice humming sweetly some 
cheerful tune. The old people looked often upon 
her in happiness, till their dim eyes filed with 
tears; while the grandmother said, “If this nest 
were to be destroyed at last, and our heads in the 
ir-ould, who would feed this young bird in the wild, 
and where would she find shelter in which to fauld 
her bonnie wings 

Lilias Grieve was the shepherdess of a small 
flock, among the green pasturage at the head of 
St. Mary’s Loch, and up the hill side, and over 
into some of tlie neighbouring glens. Sometimes 
^he sat in that beautiful church-yard, with lu»4 


LILIAS GUIEVE. 


205 


sheep lyings scattered around licr upon the quiet 
graves, wliere, on still sunny days, she could see 
their shado’^^s in the water of the Loch, and lier- 
self sitting close to the low vv’alls of the house of 
Gnd. She had no one to speak to, but her Bible 
to read : and day after day the rising sun beheld 
her in growing beauty, and innocence that could 
not lade, happy and silent as a fairy upon the 
knowe, with the blue heavens over her head, and 
the blue lake smiling at her feet. 

“ My Fairy,” was the name she bore by ll e 
cottage lire, where the old people were gladdened 
by her glee, and turned away from all melancholy 
thoughts. And It was a name that suited sweet 
Lilias well; for she was clothed in a garb of green, 
and often, in her joy, the green graceful plants 
that grow among the hills were wreathed round 
her hair. So was she drest one Sabbath day, 
watching her flock at a considerable distance from 
home, and singing to herself a psalm in the soli- 
tary moor — when in a moment a party of soldiers 
were upon a mount on the opposite side of a nar- 
row dell. Lilias was invisibkj as a green linnet 
upon the grass, but her sweet voice had betrayed 
her, and then one of the soldiers caught the wild 
gleam of her eyes, and as she sprung frightened 
to her feet, he called out “ A roe — a roe — see how 
she bounds along the bent,” and the ruffian took 
aim at the child with his musket, half in sport, half 
in ferocity. Lilias kept appearing and disappear- 
ing, while she flew as on wings across the piece 
of black heathery moss full of pits and hollows — 
and still the soldier kept his musket at its aim. 
flis comrades called to him to hold his hand, and 
not shoot a poor little innocent child, but he at 
length fired, and the bullet was heard to whiz past 
ber feri:-crowned head, and to strike a bank whicb 


206 


MLIAS GRIEVE. 


she was about to ascend. The child paused foi 
a moment, and looked back, and then bounded 
away over tlie smooth turf ; till, like a cushat, she 
dropt into a little birchen glen, and disappeared. 
Not a sound of her feet was heard — she seemed to 
have sunk into the ground — and the soldier stood, 
without any effort to follow her, gazing through 
the smoke towards the spot where she had van- 
ished. 

A sudden superstition assailed the hearts of the 
party, as they sat down together upon a ledge of 
stone. “ Saw you her face. Riddle, as iny ball 
went whizzing past her ear — curse me, if she be 
not one of those hill fairies, else she had been as 
dead as a herring — but 1 believe the bullet glanced 
ofl’ her yellow hair as against a buckler.” “ Uy 
St. George, it was the act of a gallows-rogue to 
fire upon the creature, fairy or not fairy, and you 
deserve the weight of this hand, the hand of an 
Englishman you brute, for your cruelty and up 
rose the speaker to put his threat into execution, 
when the other retreated some distance, and be- 
gan to load his musket ; but the Englishman ran 
upon him, and with a Cumberland gripe and trip, 
laid him upon the hard ground with a force that 
drove the breath out of his body, and left him 
stunned and almost insensible. “That serves him 
right, Allan Sleigh — shiver my timbers, if I would 
fire upon a petticoat. As to fairies, why, look ye 
'tis a likely jilace enow for such creatures ; if tliis 
ae one, it is the first 1 ever saw ; but as to voui 
mermaids, I have seen a score of them, at dilfer- 
ent times, when I was at sea. As to shooting at 
them — no — no — we never tried that, or the shiji 
would have gone to the bottom. There have I 
seen them sitting on a rock, with a lookin<>--«rlass, 

^ o ' O O • 

combing their hair, that wrajiped around them 


LILIAS GRIEVE. 


207 


like a net, and then down into a coral cave in a 
jiffy to their merman’s — for mermaid, fairy, or 
mere flesh and blood women, they are all the same 
in that respect — take my word for it.” 

The fallen rufliaii now rose somewhat humbled, 
and sullenly sat down among the rest. “ Why,” 
'pioth Allan Sleigh, “ I wager you a M'eek’s pay 
you don’t venture fifty yards, without your mus- 
ket, down yonder siiingle where the fairy disap- 
peared;” — and the wager being accepted, the half- 
drunken fellow rushed on towards the head of the 
glen, and was heard crashing away through the 
shrubs. In a few minutes he returned — declaring 
with an oath that he had seen her at the mouth of 
a cave where no human foot could reach, standing 
with her hair all on fire, and an angry counte- 
nance, and that he had tumbled backwards into 
the burn and been nearly drowned ; “Drowned!” 
cried Allan Sleigh. “ Ay, drowned — why not I a 
hundred yards down that bit glen the pools are a.« 
black as pitch and as deep as hell, and the water 
roars like thunder — drowned — why not, you En- 
glish son of a deer-stealer 1” “AVhy not — because 
who was ever drowned that was born to be hang- 
ed ?” And that jest caused universal laughter — 
as it is always sure to do, often as it may be re- 
peated, in a company of ruffians, such is felt to 
be its perfect truth and unanswerable simplicity. 

After an hour’s ipiarrelling, and gibing, and 
mutiny, this disorderly band of soldiers proceeded 
on their way down into the head of Yarrow, and 
.‘here saw in the solitude the house of Samuel 
Grieve. Thither they proceeded to get some re- 
freshment, and rii)e for any outrage that any oc- 
casion might suggest. The old man and his wife 
hearing a tumult of many voices and many feet, 
came out, and were immediately saluted with 


208 


LILIAS GRIEVE. 


many opprobrious epithets. The hut was soon 
rifled of any small articles of wearing apparel, and 
Samuel, without emotion, set before them what- 
ever provisions he had, butter, cheese, bread, and 
milk ; and hoped they would not be too hard upon 
(tld people, \>ho were desirous of dying, as they 
had lived, in peace. Thankful were they both in 
their parental hearts that their little Lilias was 
among the hills ; and the old man trusted, that if 
she returned before the soldiers were gone, she 
would see from some distance their muskets on 
the green before the door, and hide herself among 
the brakens. 

The soldiers devoured their repast with many 
oaths, and mueh hideous and obscene language, 
which it was sore against the old man’s soul to 
hear in his own hut ; but he said nothing, for that 
would have been wilfully to sacrifice his life. At 
last one of the party ordered him to return thanks 
in words impious and full of blasphemy, which 
Samuel calmly refused to do, beseeching them, at 
the same time, for the sake of their own souls, not 
so to offend their great and bountiful Preserver. 
“ Confound the old canting Covenanter, I wall 
prick him with my bayonet if he won’t say grace 
and the blood trickled down the old man’s cheek, 
from a slight wound on his forehead. The sight 
of it seemed to awaken the dormant blood-thirsti- 
ness in the tiger heart of tfie soldier, who now 
swore, if the old man did not instantly repeat* the 
words after him, he would shoot him dead. And, 
as if cruelty were contagious, almost the whole 
party agreed tliat the demand was but reasonable, 
and that the old hypocritical knave must preach 
or perish. “ Damn liim,” cried one of them in a 
fury, “here is the Word of God, a great musty 
Bible, stinking of greasy black leather, worse than 


LILIAS GRIEVE. 


20S 


a whole tan-yard. If he won’t speak, I will gag 
him with a vengeance Here, old Mr. Peden 
the prophet, let me cram a few chapters of St. 
liiike down your maw. St. Luke was a physician, 
1 believe. Well, here is a dose of nim. Open 
your jaws.” And with these words he tore a 
handful of leaves out of the Bible, and advanced 
towards the old man, from whose face his terrihed 
wife was now wiping off the blood. 

Samuel Grieve was nearly fourscore ; but his 
sinews w'ere not yet relaxed, and in his younger 
days he had been a man of great strength. Wlien, 
therefore, the soldier grasped him by the neck, the 
sense of receiving an indignity from such a slave 
made his blood boil, and, as if his youth had been 
renewed, the gray-headed man with one blow, 
felled the ruffian to the floor. 

That blow sealed his doom. There was a 
fierce tumult and yelling of wrathful voices, and 
Samuel Grieve was led out to die. He had wit- 
nessed such butchery of others ; and felt that the 
hour of his martyrdom was come. “ As thou 
didst reprove Simon Peter in the garden, when he 
smote the High Priest’s servant, and saidst, ‘ The 
cup which my Father hath given me, shall I not 
drink it V — So now, O my Redeemer, do thou 
pardon me, thy frail and erring follower, and en- 
able me to drink this cup !” With these words the 
old man knelt down unbidden ; and after one 
solemji look to Heaven, closed his eyes, and fold- 
ed his hands across his breast. 

His wife now came forward, and knelt down 
beside the old man. “ Let us die together, Samtjel ; 
but oh ! what will become of our dear Lilias I” 
“ God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb,” said 
her husband, opening not his eyes, but taking hei 
hard into his, “ Sarah, be not afraid.” “ Oh ! Sara 

ic« 


210 


LILIAS GRIEVE. 


uel, I rememb'^r, at this moment, tbese words of 
Jesus, which yju this morning read, ‘ Forgive tliem, 
Father, they know not what they do !”’ “ We are 
all sinners together,” said Samuel, with a loud 
voice ; “ we two old gray-headed people on our 
Knees, and about to die, both forgive you all as 
we hope ourselves to be forgiven. We are ready 
— be merciful, and do not mangle us. Sarah, be 
not afraid.” 

ft seemed that an angel Avas sent down from 
Heaven to save the lives of these two old gray- 
headed folks. With hair floating in sunny light, 
and seemingly wreathed with flowers of heavenly 
azure, with eyes beaming lustre, and yet streaming 
tears, with white arms extended in their beauty, 
and motion gentle and gliding as the sunshine 
when a cloud is rolled away, came on over the 
meadow before the hut the same green-robed crea- 
ture that had startled the soldiers with her singing 
in the moor, and crying loudly, but still sweetly, 
“ God sent me hither to save their lives.” She 
fell down beside them as they ki>elt together; and 
then, lifting up her head from the turf, fixed hei 
beautiful face, instinct with fear, love, hope, and 
the spirit of prayer, upon the eyes of the men about 
to shed that innocent blood. 

They all stood heart-stricken; and the execu- 
tioners flung down their muskets upon the green- 
sward. “ God bless you, kind good soldiers, for 
this,” exclaimed the child, now weeping and sob- 
bing with joy, “ Ay — ay — you will be all happy 
to-night, when you lie down to sleep. If you have 
any little daughters or sisters like me, God will 
•ove them for your mercy to us, and nothing, till 
you return home, will hurt a hair of their heads. 
Oh ! I see now that soldiers are not so cruel as we 
iay ! ” “ Lilias, your grandfather speaks unto you ; 


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“The old man, his wife, and little 
theii- knees in pruj er ; then all three 


Mlias continued for 
went into the hut.” 


some time on 


Lights a.nd Shadows. 


Page 211. 


THE covenanter’s MARRIAGE-DAY. 211 

—his last words are — leave us — leave us — for thej 
are going to put us to death. Soldiers, kill not 
this little child, or the waters of the loch will rise 
up and drown the sons of perdition. Lilias, give 
us each a kiss — and then go into the house.” 

The soldiers conversed together for a few mi- 
nutes, and seemed now like men themselves con- 
demned to die. Shame and remorse for their 
coward cruelty smote them to the core — and they 
bade them that were still kneeling to rise up and go 
their ways, — then, forming themselves into regular 
order, one gave the word of command, and, march- 
ing off, they soon disappeared. The old man, his 
wife, and little Lilias, continued for some time on 
their knees in prayer, and then all three went into 
their hut — the child between them, — and a withered 
hand of each laid upon its beautiful and its fearless 
head. 


THE COVENANTER’S ALARRIAGE-DAY. 

The marriage party were to meet in a little 
lonesome dell, well known to all the dwellers 
round St. Mary’s Loch. A range of bright 
green hills goes southward from its shores, and 
betwe(jn them and the high heathery mountains 
lies a shapeless scene of cliffs, moss, and pasture, 
partaking both of the beanty and the grandeur 
between which it so wildly lies. All these cliffs 
are covered with native birch-trees, except a few 
of the loftiest that shoot up their bare points in 
many fantastic forms ; that moss, bill of what .no 
shepherds call “ hags,” or hollows worn by tin 


212 THE covenanter’s MARRIAG e-DAT. 

weather, or dug out for fuel, waves, wl)en tliewind 
goes by, its high, rich-blossomed, and fragrant 
heath ; and that pasturage, here and there in cir- 
cular spots of emerald verdure, affords the sweetest 
sustenance to the sheep to be found among all that 
mountainous region. It was in one of these circles 
of beautiful herbage, called by the shepherds “The 
Queen Fairy’s Parlour,” that Mark Kerr and 
Christian Lindsay, who had long been betrothed, 
were now to be made man and wife. It was nearly 
surrounded by large masses, or ledges of loose 
rocks, piled to a considerable height upon each 
other by some strong convulsion, and all adorned 
with the budding and sweet-breathing birches, while 
the circle was completed by one overshadowing 
cliff that sheltered it from the north blast, and on 
whose airy summit the young hawks were shrilly 
and wildly crying in their nest. 

The bridegroom was sitting there with his bride, 
and her bridesmaid ; and by and by, one friend 
after another appeared below the natural arch that, 
all dropping with wild-flowers, formed the only en- 
trance into this lonely tabernacle. At last they ail 
stood up in a circle together — shepherds decently 
apjtarellcd, — shepherdesses all dressed in raiment 
bleached whiter tlian the snow in the waters of the 
mountain-spring, and the gray-headed minister of 
God, who, driven from his kirk by blood-thirsty 
persecution, prayed and preached in the wilder- 
ness, baptized infants with the water of the running 
brook, and joined in wedlock the hands of those 
whose hearts longed to be united in those dark and 
deadly times. Few words were uttered by the gra- 
cious old man ; hut these few were solemn and 
full of cheer, impressed upon the hearts of the 
wedded pair, hy the tremulous tones of a voice that 
was not long for this world, by the sanctity of hu 


THE covenanter’s MARRIAGE DAT. 219 

,oiig white locks unmoved by a breath of air, and 
by the fatlierly and apostolical motion of his up- 
lifted hand, that seemed to conduct down upon 
them who stood in awe before him the blessings 
of that God who delighteth in an humble heart. 
The short ceremony was now closed, — and Mark 
Kerr and Christian Lindsay were united, till death 
should sunder them on earth to reunite them in 
heaven. 

Greetings were interchanged, — and smiles went 
round, with rosy blushes, and murmuring and 
whispering voices of irreproachable mirth. What 
though the days were dark, and the oppressor 
strong ? Here was a place unknown to his feet ; 
and now was a time to let the clear sparkling foun- 
tain of nature’s joy swell up in all hearts. Sad 
ness and sorrow overshadowed the land ; but hu 
man life was not yet wholly a waste ; and the 
sweet sunshine that now fell down through a 
screen of fleecy clouds upon the Queen Fairy’s 
Parlour, was it not to enliven and rejoice all their 
souls ? Was it not to make the fair bride fairer in 
her husband’s eyes — her smile brighter, and the 
ringlets more yellow as they hung over a forehead 
that wore its silken snood no longer, but in its 
changed covering gracefully showed that Christian 
Lindsay was now a wifel The tabor and the 
pipe were heard ; and footsteps, that left no print 
on the hard smooth verdant floor, kept time to the 
merjy measures. Perhaps the old man would 
have frowned on such pastime — perhaps Cove- 
nanters ought not to have indulged in promiscuous 
dancing — perhaps it may be said to be false that 
they did so; — but the mhiister had gone now to his 
own hiding-place. These Covenanters were young, 
and this occasion was a happy one ; and dance 
♦bey did, most assuredly, wicked as it may have 


214 THE covenanter’s marri age-dav. 

been, and improper as it may be to record sucb 
wickedness. The young hawks were not a little 
alarmed ; and an old ram, who happened to put in 
his twisted horns below the arch, got a fright, that 
made him bound backwards out of the enchanted 
circle. The hill blackbird wondered ; but he him- 
jielf joined the dance upon the birchen spray — and 
although no great songster, he did his best, and 
chirped cheerfully his mellow notes in the din of 
the general happiness. 

But as the evening hours were advancing, the 
party kept dropping away one by one, or in pairs, 
just as it had gathered ; and the Fairy Queen had 
her parlour all to herself undisturbed, if she chose 
at night to hold a court beneath the lamp of the 
moon. 

Where had the young married pair their bridal 
chamber 1 Mark Kerr had a shealing on the moun- 
tain-side, from which was just visible one bay of 
St. Mary’s Loch. The walls were built of turf, 
and the roof of heather — and surrounded as it was 
on all sides by large stones, wooded clilfs, knowes, 
and uneven eminences, it was almost as likely to 
escape notice as the nest of a bird, or the lair of a 
roe. Thither he took his bride. Her little brides- 
maid had a small covert of her own, distant only 
a few roods, and the friends could see each other 
standing at the door of each shealing, through the 
intercepting foliage of the waving birches that hung 
down their thin and ineffectual vail till it swept the 
blooming heather. 

On a small seat, framed of the roots of decayed 
trees, Mark Kerr was now sitting with his own 
sweet Christian ; when he gently raised her head 
from his bosom, and told her to go into the sheal- 
ing, for he saw people on the hill-side, whose ap- 
pearance, even at that distance, he did not like 


THE covenanter's markiage-day. 215 

Before a quarter of an hour had elapsed a party 
of soldiers were at hand. Mark knew that he had 
been observed for some time ; and to attempt 
escape with his bride was impossible. So he rose 
up at their approach, and met them with a steady 
countenance, although there were both fear and 
sorrow in his heart. Christian had obeyed him, 
and tlie shealing was silent. 

“Is your name Mark Kerr?” “Yes — that is 
my name.” “Were you at Yarrow-Ford when a 
prisoner was rescued and a soldier murdered?” 
“ I was — but did all I could to save that soldier’s 
life.” “You wolf, you mangled his throat with 
your own bloody fangs — but we have traced you 
to your den, and the ghost of Hugh Gemmel, who 
was as pleasant either with lad or lass as any boy 
that ever emptied a cup or had a fall upon heather, 
will shake hands with you by moonlight by and by. 
You may meet either in the church-yard, down by 
the Loch, where your canting Covenanters will 
bury you, or down at Yarrow-Kirk, where Hugh 
was put to bed with the worms, in his red coat, 
like a soldier as he was. By the Holy God of 
Israel — (is not that a lump of your own slang ?) — 
this bayonet shall drink a stoup of your heart’s 
blood.” 

Mark Kerr knew, in a moment, that there was 
no ho}>e of life. He had confessed being present 
on the occasion charged against him ; and a sen- 
tence of death, which an angel’s intercession could 
not have got reversed, was glaring in the eyes of 
all the soldiers. Each man seemed to kindle into 
fiercer fury as he caught the fiery eyes around him. 
Their oaths and execrations exasperated them all 
into frenzy; and a wild and perturbed sense of 
justice demanding expiation of their murdered 
comrade’s blood, made them deaf and blind to 


216 THE covenanter’s MARRIAGE-DaY. 


every thing but the suggestions of their own irri 
rated and inflamed liearts. A horrid sympathy po j- 
sessed them all; and they were as implacable as 
a herd of wolves famished and in sight of their 
prey. There was no mercy in any one face there, 
else Mark Kerr would have appealed to that man, 
for his life was now sweet and precious, and it was 
a hard thing to die. “ I know his face. He is the 
very man that stabbed Hugh Mdien he was down 
witli his own bayonet. How do you like that, sir- 
rah ? ” — and one of the soldiers thrust his long 
bayonet through Mark’s shoulder, till the point 
was seen at his back, and then drew it out smeared 
with blood, and returned it to its sheath with a 
grin of half-glutted vengeance. The wounded man 
staggered at the blow, and sat down, nearly faint- 
ing, upon the seat where a few minutes before hia 
bride bad leant her head upon his bosom. But he 
uttered not a word, and kept his eyes fixed, not 
reproachfully, but somewhat sadly, and with a faint 
expression of hope, on the men who seemed de- 
termined to be his executioners. The pain, the 
sickness, the sudden blasting of all his hopes, al- 
most unmanned his resolute heart; and Mark 
Kerr would have now done much to save his life, 
— and something, perhaps, even at the exjiense of 
Conscience and Faith. But that weak mood was 
of short duration — and the good and brave man 
braced up his heart to receive the doom of d^'ath. 

Meanwhile one of the soldiers had entered the 
shealing, and brought out Christian in his grasp. 
A loud shout of laughter and scornful exultation 
followed. “ Ho — ho — my Heath-cock, you have 
got your bonny henl — Catch a Covenanter with- 
out his comfort. Is your name Grace, my bonny 
bairn 1 ” Christian looked around, and saw Mark 
sitting pale and speechless, with his breast covered 


THE covenanter’s MARRIAGE -DAY. 217 


ivith clotted blood. She made no outcry, for grief, 
and pity, and consternation struck her dumb. She 
could not move, fir the soldier held her in his 
arms. But she looked in the ruffian’s face with 
such an imploring countenance, that unconsciously 
he let her go, and then she went up tottering to 
I»oor Mark, and with lier white bridal gown wiped 
ofl the gore from his breast, and kissed his clayey 
and quivering lips. She then ran to the spring 
that lay sparkling among its cresses, within a few 
yards of the shealing, and brought a handful of 
cold water, which she .sprinkled tenderly over his 
face. The human soul is a wild and terrible thing 
when intlained with cruelty and reveiige. The 
soldiers saw little more in all this than a subject 
for loathsome scun’lity and ferocious merriment; 
and as Christian looked wildly round upon them, 
one asked, “Are you his sister, his cousin, or 
his drab 1” “ Oh ! soldiers — soldiers — I am his 

wife — this blessed day was I married to him. If 
any of you are married men, think of your wives 
now at home — remember the day they were brides, 
and do not murder us quite — if, indeed, my Mark 
is not already murdered.” “'Come, come, Mrs. 
Sweetiips, no more whining — you shall not want 
a husband. I will marry you myself, and so I dare 
say will the sergeant there, and also the corporal. 
Now you have had indulgence enougi: — so stand, 
back a bit ; and do you. Master Paleface, come 
forward, and down upon your marrow bones.” 
Mark, ^''ith great difficulty, rose up, and knelt 
down as he was ordered. 

He had no words to say to his bride ; nor hardly 
did he look at her — so full was his soul of her 
image, and of holy grief for the desolation in which 
she would be left by his death. The dewy breath 
of her gentle and pure kisses was yet in his iteart; 


218 THE COVENANTER S MARRIAGE-DAT. 

and llie happy sighs of maidenly tendeiness were 
now to be changed into groans of incurable despair. 
Therefore it was, that he said nothing as he knelt 
down, blit his pallid lips moved in prayer, and she 
heard her name indistinctly uttered between those 
of God and Christ. 

Christian Lindsay had been betrothed to him 
for several years, and nothing but the fear of some 
terrible evil like this had kept them so long sepa- 
rate. Dreadful, therefore, as this hour was, their 
souls were not wholly unprepared for it, although 
there is always a miserable difference between 
reality and mere imagination. She now recalled 
io her mind, in one comprehensive thought, their 
years of innocent and youthful* affection ; and 
then the holy w'ords so lately uttered by tlie old 
man in that retired place, alas ! called by too vain 
a name, “The Queen Fairy’s Parlour!” The 
tears began now to flow — they both wept — for this 
night was Mark Kerr’s head to lie, not on her bo- 
som, but in the grave, or unburied on the ground. 
In that agony, what signified to her all the insult- 
ing, hideous, and inhuman language of these licen- 
tious murderers'? They fell oft’ her soul, without 
a stain, like polluted wate'r off the plumage of 
some fair sea-bird. And as she looked on her 
husband upon his knees, awaiting his doom, him, 
the temperate, the merciful, the gentle, and the 
just, and then upon those wrathful, ragibg, fiery- 
eyed, and bloody-minded men, are they, thought 
her fainting heart, of the same kind? are they 
framed by one God ? and hath Christ alike died 
for them all ? 

She lifted up her eyes, full of prayers, for on© 
moment to heaven, and then, with a cold shudder 
of desertion, turned them upon her husband, kneei- 
ng will a white, fixed countenance, and half dead 


THE COVENANTERS MARRI VGC-DAV. 219 

already with the loss of blood. A dreadful silence 
had succeeded to that tumult; and she dimly saw a 
number of men drawn up together without moving, 
and their determined eyes held fast upon their vic- 
tim. “ Think, my lads, that it is Hugh Gemrnel’s 
ghost that commands you now,” said a deep bourse 
voice ; “ no mercy did the holy men of the moun- 
tain show to him when they smashed his skull 
with large stones from the channel of the Yarrow 
Now for revenge.” 

The soldiers presented their muskets — the word 
was given — and they fired. At that moment 
Christian Lindsay had rushed forward and flung 
herself down on her knees beside lier husband, 
and they both fell, and stretched themselves out 
mortally wounded upon the grass. 

During all this scene, Marion Scott, the brides 
maid, a girl of fifteen, had been lying affriglited 
among the brackens within a hundred yards of 
the murder. The agony of grief now got the bet- 
ter of the agony of fear, and leaping up from her 
concealment, she rushed into the midst of the sol- 
diers, and kneeling down beside her dear Chris- 
tian Lindsay, lifted up her head, and shaded the 
hair from her forehead. “ Oh ! Christian, your 
eyes are opening — do you hear me — do you bear 
me speaking?” “ Yes, I hear a voice — is it yours, 
Mark ? — speak again.” “ Oh ! Christian, it is only 
my voice — poor Marion’s.” “ Is Mark dead — 
quite dead ?” And there was no reply; but Chris- 
tian must have heard the deep gasping sobs that 
were rending the child’s heart. Her eyes, too, 
opened nmre widely, and misty as they were, they 
saw, indeed, close by her, the huddled up, mangled, 
and bloody body of her husband. 

The soldiers stood like so many beasts of prey, 
who had gorged their fill of blood ; their rage wa* 
abated ; and they offered no violence to 'sffee 


8SJ0 THE covenanter’s marriage-dat* 


tionate child, as she continued to sit before theia, 
with the head of Christian Lindsay in her lap, 
watering it with tears, and moaning so as to touch, 
at last, some even of their hardened hearts. When 
blood is shed, it soon begins to appear a fearful 
sight to tlie shedders ; and the hand soon begins 
to tremble that has let out human I'fe. Cruelty 
cannot sustain itself in presence of that rueful co- 
cur, and remorse sees it reddening into a more 
ghastly hue. Some of the soldiers turned away 
in silence, or with a half-suppressed oath ; otliers 
strayed otf among the trees, and sat down togetli- 
er ; and none would now have touched the head 
of pretty little Marion. The man whom they had 
shot deserved death — so they said to one another 
— and he had got it ; but the woman’s death was 
accidental, and they were not to blame because 
she had run upon their fire. So, before the smell 
and the smoke of the gunpowder had been carried 
away by the passing breeze from that place of 
murder, all were silent, and could hardly bear to 
look one another in the face. Their work had 
been lamentable indeed. For now they began to 
see that these murdered people were truly bride- 
groom and bride. She was lying there dressed 
with her modest white bridal garments and white 
ribands, now streaked with many streams of blood 
from mortal wounds. So, too, was she who was 
supporting her head. It was plain that a bridal 
party bad been this very day — and that their hands 
had prepared for a hajipy and aflectionate newly- 
wedded pair that bloody bed, and a sleep from 
which there was to be no awaking at the voice of 
morn. They stood looking appalled on the bodies, 
while, on the wild flowers around them, which the 
Btain of blood had not yet reached, loudly and 
cheerfully were murmurijig the luountain-bees. 


THE COVENiNTER’s MARRIAGE DA f. 22 \ 


Christian Lindsay was not quite dead, ami siw 
at last lifted herself up a little way out of Marion’s 
lap, and then falling down with her arms over her 
husband’s neck, uttered a few indistinct words ot 
prayer, and expired. 

Marion Scott had never seen death befoi-e, and 
it was now presented to her in its most ghastly 
and fearful shape. Every horror she had ever 
heard talked of in the hiding-places of her father 
and relations was now realized before h. r eyes, 
and for any thing she knew, it was now her turn 
to die. Had she dreamed in her sleep of such a 
trial, her soul would have died within her, — and 
she would have convulsively shrieked aloud on her 
bed. But the pale, placid, hajjqiy-looking face of 
dead Christian Lindsay, whom she had loved as 
an elder sister, and who hud always been so good 
to her from the time she was a little child, inspired 
her now with utter fearlessness, and she could 
have knelt down to be shot by the soldiers without 
one quickened pulsation at her heart. But now 
the soldiers were willing to leave the bloody green, 
and their leader told Marion she might go her 
ways and bring her friends to take care of the dead 
bodies. No one, he said, would hurt her. And 
soon after, the party disappeared. 

Marion remained for a while beside the dead. 
Their wounds bled not now. But she brought 
water from the little spring and washed them all 
decently, and left not a single stain upon either of 
their faces. She disturbed, as little as possible, 
the position in which they lay; nor removed Chris- 
tian’s arms from her husband’s neck. She lifteil 
one of the arms up for a moment to wipe away a 
spot of blood, but it fell down again of itself, and 
moved no more. 

19 * 


232 THE COrENAOTER’s MARRIARE-DAT. 


Dining all this time the setting sunlight wh* 
giving a deeper tinge to the purple heather, and as 
M arion lifted up her eyes to heaven, she saw in 
the golden west the last relics of the day. All the 
wild was silent — not a sound was there but that 
of the night-hawk. And the darkening stillness 
touched Marion’s young soul with a trembling su- 
perstition, as she looked at the dead bodies, then 
up to the uncertain sky, and over the glimmering 
shades of the solitary glen. The poor girl was 
half afraid of the deepening hush, and the gather- 
ing darkness. Yet the spirits of those she had so 
tenderlv loved would not harm her: they had 
gone to heaven. Could she find heart to leave 
tnem thus lying together? Yes — there was noth- 
ing, she thought, to molest the dead. No raven 
inhabited this glen ; nothing but the dews would 
touch them, till she went to the nearest hiding- 
place, and told her father or some other friends of 
the murder. 

Before tlie moon had risen, the same party that 
on the morning had been present at their marriage, 
had assembled on the hill-side before the shealini; 
where Mark Kerr and Christian Lindsay were 
■now lifted up together on a heather-couch, and ly- 
ing cold and still as in the grave. The few maids 
and matrons who had been in that happy scene in 
the Queen Fairy’s Parlour, had not yet laid aside 
their white dresses, and the little starry riband- 
knots, or bride’s favours, were yet upon their 
ibreasts. The old minister had come from his 
cave, and not for many years had he wept till 
now ; hut this was a case even for the tears of an 
old religious man of fourscore. 

To watch by the dead all night, and to wait for 
•oroe days till they could be coffined for burial, 


THE covenanter’s marriage-dav. 223 

•ras not to be thoug^ht of in such times of peril. 
That would have been to sacrifice the living fool, 
ishlj for the dead. The soldiers had gone. But 
they might — no doubt would return and scatter the 
funeral. Therefore it was no sooner proposed 
than agreed to in the afflicted souls of them all, 
tint the bridegroom and his bride should be buried 
even that very night in the clothes in which they 
had that morning been wedded. A bier was soon 
formed of the birch-tree boughs ; and with their 
faces meekly looking up to heaven, now filled 
with moonlight, they were borne along in sobbing 
silence, up tlie hills and down along tlie glens, till 
the party stood together in the lone burial-ground, 
at the head of St. 3Iary’s Loch. A grave was 
dug for them there, but that was not their own 
burial-place. For Mark Kerr’s father and mother 
lay in the church-yard of Melrose, and the parents 
of Christian Lindsay slept in that of Bothwell, 
near the flow of tlie beautiful Clyde. The grave 
was half filled with heather, and gently were they 
let down together, even as they were found lying 
on the green before their shealing, into that mourn- 
ful bed. The old man afterwards said a prayer — 
not over them — but with the living. Then sitting 
down on the graves, and on the grave-stones, they 
spoke of the virtues of the dead. They had, it is 
true, been cut off in their youthful prime ; hut 
many happy days and years had been theirs — their 
affection for each other had been a pleasant so- 
lace to them in toil, poverty and persecution, 
This would have been a perplexing day to those 
who had not faith in God’s perfect holiness and 
mercy. But all who mourned now together were 
wholly resigned to his dispensations, and soon all 
eyes were dried. In solemn silence they all quit- 
ted the church-yard, and thr n the funeral perty 


224 


THE BAPTISM. 


which a few hours ago had been a marriage one, 
dissolved among the hills and glens and rocks 
and left Mark Kerr and Christian Lindsay to ever 
lasting rest. 


THE BAPTISM. 

It is a pleasant and impressive time, when at 
the close of divine service, in some small country 
church, there takes place the gentle stir and pre- 
paration for a Baptism. A sudden air of cheerful- 
ness spreads over the whole congregation ; the 
more solemn expression of all countenances fades 
away ; and it is at once felt, that a rite is about to 
be performed, which, although of a sacred and 
awful kind, is yet connected with a thousand de- 
lightful associations of purity, beauty, and inno- 
cence. Then there is an eager bending of smiling 
faces over the humble galleries — an unconscious 
rising up in affectionate curiosity — and a slight 
murmuring sound in which is no violation of the 
Sabbath sanctity of God’s house, when in the mid- 
dle passage of the church the party of women is 
seen, matrons and maids, who bear in their bosoms, 
or in their arms, the helpless beings about to be 
made members of the Christian Communion. 

There sit, all dressed becomingly in white, the 
fond and happy baptismal group. The babes have 
been intrusted, for a precious hour, tt the bosonis 
of young maidens, who tenderly fold them to their 
vearning hearts, and with endearments taught by 
nature, are stilling, not always successfully, their 
plaintive cries. Then the proud and delighted 


THE BAPTISM. 


22.H 


girls rise up, one after the other, in sight of the 
whole congregation, and hold up the infants, ar- 
rayed in neat caps and long flowing linen, into 
their ‘athers’ hands. For the poorest of the poor, 
if ht has a heart at all, will have his infant well 
dress# d on such a day, even although it should 
scant his meal for weeks to come, and force him 
to spare fuel to his winter fire. 

And now the fathers are all standing below the 
pulpit with grave and thoughtful faces. Each has 
tenderly taken his infant into his toil-hardened 
hands, and supports it in gentle and steadfast art'ec- 
tion. They are all the children of poverty, and, 
if they live, are destined to a life of toil. But now 
poverty puts on its most pleasant aspect, for it is 
beheld standing before the altar of religion with 
contentment and faith. This is a time when the 
better and deeper nature of every man must rise 
up within him ; and when he must feel, more 
especially, that he is a spiritual and immortal 
being making covenant with God. He is about to 
take upon himself a holy charge ; to promise to 
look after his child’s immortal soul ; and to keep 
its little feet from the paths of evil, an'^ ’r. th"" ’ ■ * 
innocence and peace. Such a thougrii c.evatea 
the lowest mind above itself — diffuses additional 
tenderness over the domestic relations, and makes 
them who hold up their infants to the baptismal 
font, better fathers, husbands, and sons, by the 
deeper insight which they then possess into their 
nature and their life. 

The minister consecrates the water — and a? it 
falls on his infant’s face, the father feels the great 
oath in his soul. As the poor helpless creature is 
wailing in his arms, he thinks how needful indeed 
to human infancy is the love of Providence ! And 
when, after delivering each his child into the arm* 


^6 


THE BAPTISM 


of the smiling maiden from whom he had received 
It, he again takes his place for admonition and ad- 
vice before the pulpit, his mind is well disposed to 
think on the perfect beauty of that religion of whom 
the Divine Founder said, “Suffer little children 
to be brought unto me, for of such is the kingdom 
of heaven ! ” 

The rite of Baptism had not thus been perform- 
ed for several months in the Kirk of Lanark. It 
was now the hottest time of persecution ; and the 
inhabitants of that parish found other places in 
wliich to worship God and celebrate the ordinances 
of religion. It was now the Sabbath-day, — and a 
small congregation of about a hundred souls had 
met for divine service in a place of worsliip more 
magnificent than any temple that human hands 
had ever built to Deity. Here, too, were three 
children about to be baptized. The congregation 
had not assembled to the toll of the bell,— -4iut each 
heart knew the hour and observed it ; for there are 
a hundred sun-dials among the hills, woods, moors, 
and fields; and the shepherd and the peasant see 
the hours passing by them in sunshine and shadow. 

T' e c!i jrch in which they were assembled, was 
hewn, uy God’s hand, out of the eternal rocks. A 
river rolled its way through a mighty chasm of 
cliffs, several hundred feet higli, of which the one 
side presented enormous masses, and the other 
corresponding recesses, as if the great stone girdle 
had been rent by a convulsion. The channel was 
overspread with prodigious fragments of rock or 
large loose stones, some of them smooth and bare, 
others containing soil and verdure in their rents 
and fissures, and here and there crowned with 
shrubs and trees. The eye could at once com- 
mand a long stretching vista, seemingly closed and 
chut up at both ex xemities by the coalescing cliffs 


THE BAPTISM 


227 


This mujestic reach of river contained pools, 
streams, rushing’ shelves, and waterfalls innu- 
merable ; and when the water was low, which l“» 
now was in the common drought, it was easy ta 
walk up ihis scene with the calm blue sky over- 
head, an utter and sublime solitude. On looking 
up, the soul was bowed down by the feeling of that 
prodigious height of unscaleable and often over- 
hanging cliff. Between the channel and the sum- 
mit of the far-extended precipices were perpetually 
flying rooks and Avood-pigeons, and now and then 
a hawk, filling the profound abyss wath their Avild 
cawing, deep inurnuir, or shrilly shriek. Some- 
times a heron Avould stand erect and still on some 
little stone island, or rise up like a Avhite cloud 
along the black Avails of the chasm, and disappear. 
Winged creatures alone could inhabit this region. 
The fox and Avild-cat chose more accessible haunts. 
Y et here came the iiersecuted Christians and Avor- 
shipped God, whose hand hung over their heads 
those magnificent pillars and arches, scooped out 
those galleries from the solid rock, and laid at their 
feet the calm Avater in its transparent beauty, in 
Avhich they could see themselves sitting in reflected 
groups, Avith their Bibles in their hands. 

Here upon a semicircular ledge of rocks, over a 
narroAV chasm, of Avhich the tiny stream played in 
a murmuring Avaterfall, and divided the congrega- 
tion into tAvo equal parts, sat about a hundred per- 
sons, all devoutly listening tc their minister, Avho 
stood before them on Avhat might Avell be called a 
small natural pulpit of living stone. Up to it there 
led a short flight of steps, and over it Avaved ,..e 
canopy of a tall graceful birch-tree. Tin- ,alpit 
stood on the middle ff the channel, dire-^’ j facing 
that congregation, and separated frorr. ,iiem by the 
clear, deep, sparkling pool, into Avliich the scarce 


228 


THE BAPTISM. 


heard water y.oured over the blackened rock. Th« 
water, as it left the pool, separated into two streams, 
and flowed on each side of that altar, thus placiiig 
it in an island, whose large mossy stones were rich 
ly embowered under the golden blossoms and 
green tresses of the broom. Divine service was 
closed, and a row of maidens, all clothed in purest 
white, came gliding off from the congregation, and 
crossing the stream on some stepping-stones, ar- 
ranged themselves at the foot of the pulpit, with 
the infants about to be baptized. The fathers of 
the infants, just as if they had been in their own 
kirk, had been sitting there during worship, and 
now stood up before the minister. The baptismal 
water, taken from that pellucid pool, was lying 
consecrated in a small hollow of one of the upright 
stones that formed one side or pillar of the pulpit, 
and the holy rite proceeded. Some of the younger 
ones in that semicircle kept gazing down into the 
pool, in which the whole scene was reflected, and 
now and then, in spite of the grave looks, or ad- 
monishing whispers of their elders, letting a pebble 
fall into the water, that they might judge of its 
depth from the length of time that elapsed before 
the clear air-bells lay sparkling on the agitated sur- 
face. The rite was over, and the religious service 
of the day closed by a Psalm. The mighty rocks 
hemmed in the holy sound, and sent it in a more 
compact volume, clear, sweet, and strong, up to 
heaven. When the Psalm ceased, an echo, like a 
spirit’s voice, was heard dying away high up among 
cbe magnificent architecture of the clilFs, and once 
m«j e might be noticed in the silence of the re- 
viving 'oice of the waterfall. 

Just ti. n a large stone fell from the top of the 
cliff into the pool, a loud voice was heard, and a 
plaid hung over on the point of a shepherd’s staff 


THE BAPTISM 


229 


Their watchful sentinel had descried danger, and 
this was his warning. Forthwith the congregation 
rose. Then were paths dangerous to unpractised 
feet, al nig the ledges of the rocks, leadinjr up to 
several caves and places of concealment. The 
more active and young assisted the elder — more 
especially the old pastor, and the women with the 
infants ; and many minutes had not elapsed, till 
not a living creature was visible in the channel of 
the stream, but all of them hidden, or nearly so, in 
the clefts and caverns. 

The shepherd who had given the alarm had lain 
down again in his plaid instantly on the green 
sward upon the summit of these precipices. A 
party of soldiers were immediately upon him, and 
demanded what signals he had been making, and 
to whom ; when one of them, looking over the 
edge of the cliff, exclaimed, “ See, see! Humphrey, 
we have caught the whole Tabernacle of the Lord 
in a net at last. There they are, praising God 
among the stones of the river Mouss. Those are 
the Cartland Craigs. By my soul’s salvation, a 
noble Cathedral ! “ Fling the lying sentinel over 

the clifts. Here is a canting Covenantei- for you, 
deceiving honest soldiers on the very Sahbatli-day. 
Over with him, over with him — out of the gallery 
into the pit.” But the shepherd had vanished like 
a shadow; and, mixing with the tall green broom 
and brushes, was making his unseen way towards 
a wood. “ Satan has saved his servant ; but come, 
my lads — follow me — 1 know the way down into 
the bed of the stream — and the steps up to Wal- 
lace’s cave. They are called the ‘ Kittle Nine 
Stanes.’ The hunt’s up. We’ll be all in at the 
death. Halloo — hiy boys — halloo!” 

The soldiers dashed down a less precipitous part 
of the wooded banks a little below the “ craigs,” 


£30 


THE BAPTISM. 


and hurried up tlie channel. But when they reanh 
ed the altar where the old gray-haired minister had 
been seen standing, and the rocks that had b<‘en cov- 
ered with people, all was silent, and solitary — not a 
creature to be seen. “Here is a Bible dro]»t by 
some of them,” cried a soldier, and with his foot 
spun it away into the pool. “A bonnet — a bon- 
net,” — cried another — “ now for the jiretty sanc- 
tified face that rolled its demure eyes below it.” 
But, after a few jests and oaths the soldiers stood 
still, eyeing, with a kind of mysterious dread, the 
black and silent walls of the rock that hemmed 
them in, and hearing only the small voice of the 
stream that sent a profound stillness through the 
heart of that majestic solitude. “ Curse these cow- 
ardly Covenanters — what if they tumble down upon 
our heads pieces of rock from their hiding-places'? 
Advance? Or retreat?” There was no rejily. For 
a slight fear was upon every man; musket or 
bayonet could be of little use to men obliged to 
clamber up rocks, along slender paths, leading, 
they knew not where; and they were aware that 
armed men, now-a-days, worshipped God — men 
of iron hearts — who feared not the glittering of the 
soldier’s arms — neither barrel nor bayonet — men 
of long stride, firm step, and broad breast, who, on 
die o])en field, would have overthrown the mai- 
shalled line, and gone first and foremost if a city 
had to be taken by storm. 

As the soldiers were standing together irresolute, 
a noise came upon their ears like distant thunder, 
but even more appalling ; and a slight current of 
air, as if propelled by it, past whispering along the 
sweet-briers, and the broom, and the tresses of the 
birch-trees- It came deepening, and rolling, and 
roaring on, and the very Cartland Craigs sliook to 
their foundation as if in an earthquake. “ The 


SIMON GRAY. 


231 


Lord have mercy upon us — what is thisl” And 
down fell many of the miserable wretches on theii 
knees, and some on their faces, upon the sharp- 
pointed rocks. Now, it was like the sound of 
many myriads of cliariots rolling on their iron 
axles down the stony channel of the torrent. Tlie 
old gray-haired minister issued from the mouth of 
Wallace’s Cave, and said, with a loud voice, — 
“The Lord God terrible reigneth.” A water-spout 
had burst up among the moor-lands, and the river, 
in its power, was at hand. There it came — tum- 
bling along into that long reach of cliffs, and in a 
moment filled it with one mass of waves. Huge 
agitated clouds of foam rode on the surface of a 
blood-red torrent. — An army must have been swept 
off by that flood. The soldiers perished in a mo- 
ment — but high up, in the cliffs, above the sweep 
of destruction, were the Covenanters — men, wo- 
men, and children, uttering prayers to God, un- 
heard by themselves, in that raging thunder. 


SIMON GRAY. 

No man’s life seemed to promise a calmer course 
and a more serene close than th.at of the Reverend 
Simon Gray. He had for many years possessed 
the entire affection and respect of all the inhabi- 
tants of his parish. A few words from him calm- 
ed angry blood, settled quarrels, and allayed ani- 
mosity. In his kirk, in his Manse, in his neigh- 
bour’s house, in the field, and by the way-side, he 
was, in good truth, the minister of peace. In his 
own family his happiness was perfect. His w'ift 


B32 


IMON GRAY. 


was, in all thinj^s, after his own heart ; and two 
sons and one daughter, just reaching man and 
woman’s estate, had scarcely ever given their pa- 
rents distress, and seemed destined for a life of 
respectability and happiness. But it is with the 
humble as with the high in this world ; their pos- 
sessions are equally insecure ; and the same les- 
son may be learnt from the life of the lowliest pea- 
sant, as from that of the loftiest king. From the 
cottage and from the palace the same warning 
voice is heard to say, “ Call no man happy till he 
dies.” 

Simon Gray’s eldest son, a youth of distinguish- 
ed talents, and even more tenderly beloved than 
admired by all who knew him, was drowned in a 
moor-land loch in his father’s parish, one warm 
summer evening, when his jtarents were sitting at 
no great distance, in a hollow among the hills. 
They heard his cries, but could do nothing to save 
him, when rushing to the water’s weedy and rushy 
edge, they saw him sinking in miserable entangle- 
ment among the long strong roots of the water- 
lilies. Of the shock their hearts and whole being 
then got, nothing need be said ; but from that 
evening, well as they were both thought to sujiport 
it, every one in the parish felt that they never 
were the same people as before, that their faces never 
wore such bright smiles, and that the minister and 
his wife often looked to each other when in com- 
pany, with tearful eyes, as if an accidental word 
or allusion had awakened in their hearts a remem- 
brance too tender, or too terrible. Michael would 
have been, had he lived, his father’s successor ; 
and some thought that the Manse never looked ex- 
actly like itself since that fatal event. 

But this was but the beginning of Simon’s sor- 
rows. llis other son was a clerk in a commercia 


SIMON GRAY. 


233 


house in the neighbouring city, and in the unre- 
served confidence of his employers. Kegularly 
every Saturday did he walk out to the Manse-— 
stay over the Sabbath — and next morning before 
breakfast appear at his desk. But one dark and 
stormy winter evening, in the middle of the week, 
he unexpectedly entered his father’s Study, and 
flinging himself down upon his knees, declared 
that he was a ruined and lost man — that he had 
formed a guilty connexion with a woman who had 
Jed him on to his destruction ; and that he had 
embezzled his benefactor’s money — done worse — 
forged his name, and that unless he could make 
his escape, he must expiate his crime on a scaffold. 

Simon Gray lifted up his son from his knees, 
and folded him to his heart. “ My poor wretcJied 
boy — thy life is in jeopardy ! Oh ! that I knew 
how to save my son ! Stephen — Stephen — what 
would signifiy the breaking of my heart if thou 
wast but safe ! Speak not — my sweet boy — of thy 
crimes, great as they are. I am thy father, and 
can now think but of thy death, and thy life. Fly, 
Stephen, and take with thee thy father’s blessing. 
Perhaps all thy money is gone ; I will give thee 
enougli to pursue thy journey ; and so also may 
I be able to repay all thou hast embezzled. O, 
Stephen — Stephen — my beloved boy, who hast so 
often sat in thy innocence on my knees, and whom 
so often I have put to bed aff< i thy prayers, has it 
indeed come to thisF’ And father and son knelt 
down together and prayed unto their God. It was 
a black stormy night, and Stephen went away 
without seeing his mother or sister. He went away; 
but he never returned. He made his escape to 
America, and died in a few weeks after his arrival, 
of the yellow fever. 

The miserable father knew net how to breair 
20 * 


234 


SIMON GRAY. 


the matter to his wife and daughter. They saw 
his affliction ; and he U Id them he feared Stephen 
was a profligate. But next night, the outer door 
opened loudly, and two officers of justice entered 
the Manse. Now, all concealment was at an end ; 
and next day it was known, not only to the in- 
mates of the Manse, but to all the inhiibitants of 
the parish, that Stephen Gray was a criminal, and 
had lied to a foreign land. 

Over the grave of the eldest son his parents 
could shed tears of a resigned sadness ; but for 
him who died untended beyond the sea, their grief 
was bitter and inconsolable. No one ever uttered 
Stephen’s name, although there was not a house 
in all the parish where his cheerful laugh had not 
been welcome. Ill as he had behaved, dishoJiestly, 
and vilely, affection for his memory was in every 
heart. Ilut a grave look or sigh was all in which 
any one could show this sorrow and sympathy 
now ; and the minister of Seatoun understood the 
silence of his parishioners, for his dead son had 
been a felon — ay, Stephen, the gay, witty, fearless, 
and affectionate Stephen, had been a felon. He 
had written a letter to his father on his death-bed 
— a few words — but they were impressed for ever 
on his father’s soul, and often did he repeat them 
in his sleep, as the tears forced their way through 
his closed eyelids, and drenched his heaving breast. 

The terror struck -nto the heart of Stephen’s 
sister by the sudden bursting in of the officers of 
justice into the Manse, in some degree affected her 
intellects ; her memory from that night was im- 
paired, and after her brother’s death in Americii 
IkkI been communicated to her, she frequently for- 
got it, and weeping, implored to know if he had 
not lately written home. “ He must be dead, or 
he would have '.vritten and she kept walking 


SIMON GRAY. 


235 


nbout the house, from one room to another, re 
peating these words with a wailing voice, and sore- 
ly wringing her liands. That could not last long; 
without any disease, she lay down on her bed, and 
never more rose. She was buried by the side of 
her brother Michael : and nijw Simon Gray was 
childless. 

Misfortunes, it is said, come in clouds ; and in- 
deed one is often not the forerunner merely, but 
the cause of another, till a single loss appears, on 
reflect!®*, to have been the source of utter misery, 
ruin, and desolation. Each of these death’s took 
away a portion of Simon Gray’s fortitude ; but 
still, after a few months, he had carried over his 
whole awakened heart upon the survivor. Now 
there was no one left for a parent’s love ; and it 
was buried below the last slab that laid its weight 
on his family burial-place. To be sure, poor Ste- 
phen was not there, but he had his memorial too, 
beside his brother and sister, for his crimes had 
not divided him from one loving heart ; and few 
but his parents’ eyes looked on the stone that bore 
his name and the number of his years. 

Under all these afflictions, Simon’s wife seemed 
to bear herself up to the wonder of all who beheld 
her. She attended to every thing about the house 
as before ; none of her duties to the poor or rich 
among her parishioners were neglected ; and but 
for her, it was said, that her husband must have 
gunk under his sorrows. But little do we know 
of each other’s hearts. Simon Gray was discon- 
solate, miserable, despairing ; but his health did 
not suffer; and he was able to discharge his ordi- 
nary duties as before, after a short suspension. 
She who administered comfort to him, sometimeg 
in vain, needed it more even than himself; foi her 
grief preyed inwardly, in the midst of that serene 


236 


SIMON URAT. 


resignation, and struck in upon her very neart 
Her strength decayeil — she drew her breatli with 
pain — and although no one, not even her medical 
attetidants, feared immediate danger, yet one day 
she was found dead, sitting in a bower in the gar 
den, to which she had retired to avoid the noon 
day sun. Death had come gently into that bower, 
and touched her heart, perhaps in a slumber. Her 
liead was reclining against the green leaves, and 
the Bible had not even fallen out of her hand. 

The calamities that had befallen the minister of 
Seatoun were as great as heart or imagination can 
conceive. Yet such calamities have been borne 
by many human beings, who have so far recovered 
from their shock as afterwards to enjoy some satis- 
faction in their existence. Men have we all known, 
with cheerful countenances, and apparently placid 
minds, whose best enjoyments have been sorely 
cut down; and who, at one time, no doubt; thought 
and f(dt that for them, never more could there be 
one glimpse of joy upon this earth. But necessity 
is to many afflicted spirits, although a stern yet a 
sure comforter. The heart in its ajjonies of y rief 
IS rebellious, and strives to break asunder the fet- 
ters of its fate. But that mood cannot be sustain- 
ed. It is irrational and impious, and the soul can 
find true rest only in resignation and submission. 
— Then mingled motives to better and calmer 
thoughts arise. IMen see the wisdom and the vir- 
tue of a temperate sorrow ; the folly and the wick- 
edness of outrageous grief. They begin to wish 
to obey the laws that ought to regulate tlie feelings 
of mortal creatures'. In obeying them there is 
consolation, and a lightening of the sore burden 
of their distress. Then come blessed thoughts of 
the reward rf the righteous who liave gone to God 
— remembrances of all their beauty, innocence, ot 


SIMON GRAV. 


237 


jfoodiioss, while they sojourned with us here ; — and 
hope, f iith, and belief tliat we shall yet meet tlieni 
face to face, ajul be no more severed. Tluis docs 
time cure the wounds of the licart, just as it covers 
the ^nive with verdure and witli flowers. We caii- 
»iot, if we would, live without often sorrowing; 
blit neither can we, if we would, sorrow always, 
(lod is kinder to us than we are to ourselves, and 
he lifts us up when, in blind passion, we would 
fain lie grovelling hopelessly in the dust. 

So it is with many — perha)>s with most men — 
but it is not so with all. It was not so with him 
of whom we now speak. The death of his chil- 
dren he bore with resignation, and thought of them 
in peace. But when his soul turned from them to 
their mother, it was suddenly discpiieted ; and day 
after day, week after week, and month after month, 
was it drawn with a more sickening and disconso- 
late passion of grief to her grave. An overwhelm- 
in<r tenderness for ever drowned his soul — haunted 
was he for ever by her image, dressed as he bad 
never seen her, but as he knew she now was drest, 
— in a shroud. The silence of his room, of the 
whole house, of the garden, the glebe, and all the 
Helds around, was ins^upportable ; he prayed to for- 
get her; and then, with a gush of tears, he prayed 
that he might never cease for one moment to think 
of her while he lived. Why, some one might have 
asked, was this man so distressed, so distracteil, 
so infatuated in his grief? Who was she that had 
been taken from him? Did all the beauty of the 
skies, all the gladness of the earth, all aflfcction, 
love, joy, and thought, centre but in ber alone 1 
Had the mercy of God, and his bounty to this be- 
ing whom he still supported, been utterly extin- 
guished when the eyes of her whom he loved were 
closed in death ? Who and what may she have 


238 


SIMON GRAY. 


been, that must thus madly and hopelessly be foi 
ever deplored ? 

To an indifferent heart these questions could 
not have been satisfactorily answered. She who 
had died, and who was thus ceaselessly bewaihal, 
was but one of many, many, most worthy when 
iinown to be beloved, but who, undistinguished 
among their fellow-creatures, live, and die, and go 
to heaven. Simon Gray had married her when 
they were both young, both humble, as indeed they 
always had been, and both poor. She brought to 
him pure affection, a heart full of tenderness and 
pity, a disposition as sweet as ever tinged a wo- 
man’s cheek with smiles, cheerfulness never ob- 
scured, simple thoughts reconciled in joy to a sim- 
ple life, and a faith in religion as perfect as in the 
light of the outer day. In her quiet and narrow 
neighbourhood she was thought not without her 
beatity ; and whatever that might have been, it 
sufficed to delight the heart atid soul of Simon 
Gray, when she became his briile. For twenty 
yeais never had they been a whole day apart. No 
change had ever taken ])lace in their affection, but 
such cliange as nature graciously brings when 
new loves and new duties arise to bless the wed- 
ded life. Simon Gray never thought of compar- 
ing his wife with others. In herself she was a 
bliss to him. God gave her to him, and perhaps 
he thought in his soul that he might be resigned 
were God to take her away. Such was the S])iri 
that breathed over his constant thoughts, and ac- 

^ o » 

tions, and discourses ; and in him it was unaffect- 
ed and sincere. But who knows his own soul ? 
God did take her away, and then it was known to 
him how ungrateful and how miserably weak was 
Iiis heart, how charged, haunted, and torn widi 
vain passion and lamentation, with outcries of 


SIMON GRAY. 


239 


prief that have no comfort, witli recklessness and 
despair. 

He seemed now to he without any object in tliis 
world, llis very zeal in the cause he sincerely 
loved was deadened, — and he often durst not say 
the thinj^s he ought when preacliing of the loving- 
Kiudness of his God. Tlie seat below the jndpit, 
and close to it, where for so many years he had 
seen the composed and attentive faces of his be- 
oved wife and children, was now often empty, — 
or people in it he cared not for, — indeed he cared 
less and less every Sabbath for the congregation 
he had long so truly loved, and the bcell that for- 
merly sent a calm joy into his heart, ringingthrough 
the leafy shelter of the summer trees, or tinkling 
in the clear winter sky, now gave pangs of grief, 
or its sound was heard Avith inditference and apa- 
thy. lie was in many things unconsciously a 
changed man indeed, — and in some where he per- 
ceived and felt the change, with unavailing self-up- 
liraiding, and with fear and trembling before his 
Creator and Redeemei’. This sore and sad altera- 
tion in their minister was observed with grief and 
comjiassion by all his jiarishioners. But what 
could they do for him ? They must not obtrude 
themselves too often on the jirivacy, the sanctity 
of sorrow ; hut he was remembered in tlieir jiray- 
ers, and many an eye wep and many a voice 
faltered, Avhen by the cottage firesides they talked 
of their poor minister’s afilictions, and the woful 
change that had been wrought in so short a time 
within that Manse, which had so long stood like 
tlie abode of an almost perfect blessedness. 

A rueful change was indeed beginning to take 
place in the state of Simon Gray^s soul, of which 
no one out of the Manse could have had any sus- 
Dlcion, and which for u Avhile was not suspected 


240 


SIMON GRAY. 


even by his own attached and faithful servantR 
Without comfort, under the perpetual power of 
despondency and depression, hopeless and not 
wishing for hope, afraid at last of the uncompan- 
ioned silence of his solitary hearth, and with a 
mind certainly weakened in some degree by that 
fever of grief, Simon Gray dimly turned his 
thoughts to some means of alleviating his miseries, 
be tliey what they might, and he began to seek 
sleep during the night from the influence of dan- 
gerous drugs. These often gave him nights un- 
haunted by those beloved spectres whose visits 
were iinsupportable to his soul. They occasioned 
even thoughts and fancies alien and remote from 
what he so loved and feared ; and now and then 
touched his disconsolate spirit with something like 
a gleam of transitory gladness. One moment to 
be happy, was something that his weakened mind 
conceived to be a gain. Afraid and terrified with 
his own thoughts, great relief was it to be placed, 
even for the shortest time, out of their tormenting 
power. The sentence of death was then, as it 
were, remitted, — or, at least, a respite granted, or 
tne hope of a respite. And when his fire was out 
— the iVIanse, dark and silent, and the phantoms 
about to return, he flew to this medicine in an 
agony, and night after night, till at last it followed 
regularly the unhappy man’s prayers; and Simon 
(jriay, so that his loss might be buried in oblivion, 
resigned himself into that visionary or insensible 
sleep. 

No doubt his mental sufferings were often thus 
relieved ; but the sum of his misery was increased. 
Horrid phantasies sometimes assailed him, — his 
health sufl'ered, — a deep remorse was added to his 
othei agonies, — the shame, the pertuibation of 
vice, and the appalling convictioc 


SIMON GRAY. 


241 


brought ’n flashes upon his understanding, that it 
loo was weakened, and tliat his life might termi- 
nate in imbecility or madness. 

He had now several separate states of existence, 
that came by degrees into ghastly union. One 
was his own natural, widowed, childless, forlorn, 
uncompanioned, and desolate condition — witiiout 
one glimpse of comfort, and unendurable alto- 
gether to his cold and sickened heart. From that 
he flew, in desperation, into a world of visions. 
The dead seemed re-animated — the silent burst into 
song — and sunshine streamed, as of yore, through 
the low windows of the Manse, and fragrance 
from the clambering honeysuckle filled every 
room. The frenzied man forgot his doom, and 
whenever a door opened, he looked to see his wife 
and children. The potent drugs then blessed his 
brain ; and his countenance beamed with smiles 
sad to behold, born of that lamentable delusion. 
But ere long this spell began to dissolve. Then 
came horrid hints of the truth. One cori)se after 
another lay before him — he knew them, and went 
up to close their eyes — then a sense of his own 
pitiable prostration of mind came over him, and 
still unable to know certainly whether he was or 
was not a childless widower, he would burst out 
into a long hysterical laugh, strike his burning 
forehead, and then fling himself down on bed or 
floor, to him alike, or sit in his lonely room, in 
utter stupefaction, and with cheeks bathed i:.i tears. 
The servants would come in, and look upon him 
in pity, and then go their ways without uttering a 
word. 

The whole manners and appearance of the 
minister of Seatoun were now visibly changed to 
the most careless eye. His sedate and gentle do- 


243 


8IM« N GRAT. 


TGeanour \fas converted into a hurried and dia- 
tracted wildness. Sometime he was observed in 
black melancholy and despair, — and then a^ain 
in a sort of aimless and unbecoming' glee, llis 
dress was not the same, — his countenance had 
the wrinkles but not the paleness of grief, --~his 
hand trembled, and his voice sounded not like the 
voice of the same man. A miserable rumour 
spread over the parish. The austere expressed 
dissatisfaction, — the gentle pitied, — the thoughtless 
smiled, — but all confessed that such a change had 
never been known before as that which had taken 
place in the minister of Seatoun, — and that, alas ! 
his life was likely to end in disgrace as well as 
sorrow. His degradation could not be concealed. 
Simon Gray, the simple, the temperate, the pious, 
and the just, was now a wine-bibber and a drunk- 
ard. 

The Manse now stood as if under ban of ex- 
communication. All the gravel walks, once so 
neat, were overgrown with weeds ; the hedges were 
unpruned ; cattle browsed often in the garden, 
and dust and cobwebs stained and darkened every 
window. Instead of the respectable farmers of the 
parish, the elders, or some of the few neighbour- 
ing gentry, being seen entering or leaving the 
Manse, none but men of doubtful reputation, or 
bad, opened the g.ate — strangers of mean appear- 
ance and skulking demeanour, haunted it, and 
lingered about at twilight — and not unfrequently 
the noise, clamour, and (juarrelling of drunken re 
velry startled the passer by from bounds wherein, 
ftt such hours formerly, all had been silent, except, 
perhaps, the sweet sound of the evening psalm. 

It was not possible that all respect could easily 
or soon be withdrawn from a man once so niu- 
tersally and so deservediv honoured. His vice 


SIMON GRAV. 


2»3 


proceeJed from the weakness of his lieart, that liad 
lived too much on its own Jove and on its own 
happiness, and wlien tliese stays were removed, 
fell down into this humiliation. 3Iany excuses, — 
many palliations, — many denials were framed for 
liim, and there was often silence at his name. After 
almost all respect was gone, affection remaine<l 
nearly as strong as before, for that Simon Gray 
had been a good man none denied, and now too 
were joined to the affection for him a profound 
pity and pure compassion. “Was he not a 
widower? Was he not childless ? Surely few had 
been tried as he had been tried, — and it was easy 
to see that the poor man’s grief had affected his 
brain. The minister is not in his right mind, — 
but we trust in God that he may get better.” Such 
were the words of many and the wishes of aU 
For he had no enemies — and he had for nearly 
twenty years been a friend to them all, both in 
things temporal and things eternal. 

But the hour of his ruin was fast approaching. 
Perhaps the miserable man knew that he was lost. 
Perhaps he took an insane pleasure in looking for- 
ward to his utter destructioJi. He was now the 
abject slave of his vice — whatever passed within 
his troubled and often clouded mind, he seemed 
often to have no shame now — no desire of con 
cealment, but was seen in the open daylight, in 
presence of old age that mourned, and childhood 
that could only wonder, a rueful spectacle of de 
gradation, laughing or perhaps weeping, with his 
senses drowned or inflamed, ignorant of himself 
and of his profession, and seemingly forgetful even 
of the name of his parish, and of the house in 
whose quiet secrecy he had passed so many years 
of temperance, happiness, and virtue. 


214 


SIMON GRAY. 


A melancholy confusion as now in all his 
mind. Subjects once familial to him were now 
almost forgotten ; truths once clear to him as sun- 
shine, were now no more known; the great doc- 
trines of Christianity which he had so long taught 
with simplicity and fervour, became to his weak- 
ened and darkened understanding words without 
meaning ; even the awful events of his Saviour’s 
life, from the hour when he was laid in the manger, 
till he died on the cross, were at times dimly re- 
cognized, for all was now glimniering and ghastly 
in the world of his memory. One night he was 
seen sitting beside the graves of his wife and chil- 
dren. The infatuated man fixed on them his glazed 
and wild eyes, and muttered unintelligible lamenta- 
tions and blessings. Most sad — most shocking — 
most terrible, was it to behold such a man in such 
a place, in such pitiable degradation. For one 
year had not yet elapsed since Simon Gray’ had 
been leading a life of innocent simplicity, a perfect 
model of what ought to be the simple and austere 
minister of a simi)le and austere church. Tiiere 
he was seen by a few, now wringing his hands, now 
patting the tombstone on his wife’s grave, now 
kneeling down, now kissing it, now lifting up his 
convulsed face to heaven, alternately yielding to a 
wailing tenderness, and a shuddering horror — for- 
getful now of every thing but the dim confusion 
of all those deaths and his own miseries, and now 
seemingly assailed with a dreadful consciousness 
of his miserable degradation, till, with a horrid 
groan, long, low, and deep of mortal grief, he rose 
up from the ground, gazed ghastly round all over 
the tombstones with a bewildered eye, glared upon 
the little kirk and its spire now bright with the 
light of the setting sun, and ther , like a wandering 


SIMON GRAY. 


24A 


and punisliod ghost, disappeared into the shady 
and neglected garden of the Manse. 

Enslaved as Simon Gray now was to his vice, 
nr, indeed, disease, yet such was the solemn an<; 
awful power over his mind which the Sabbath-day 
possessed, that he had never once polluted or vio 
lated its sanctity. In cases of furious insanity 
it has been known that patients whose lives hart 
been religious, have felt the influence of strong 
habitual association, and kept a wild Sabbath even 
in their cells. With the minister of Seatoun this 
mysterious force had hitherto imposed a saving re- 
straint. His congregation was sadly thinned, but 
still he performed divine service ; and no one at 
least could say that they had ever seen the wretched 
man under the dominion of the sin, that so easily 
beset him, in the pulpit. But that hour now came ; 
and he was ruined past all earthly redemption. 

Next day the elders went to the Manse. His 
servants made no opposition to their entrance, nor 
did they deny that their minister was at home 
They had not, indeed, seen him since the evening 
before ; but they had heard his footsteps and his 
voice, and knew that he was not dead. So the 
elders walked up stairs to his room, and found him 
sitting near the window, looking out upon the 
church-yard, through and below the rich flowery 
foliage of the horse-chesnuts and sycamores that 
shadowed both Manse and kirk. He was fully 
aw akened to the horrors of his situation, and for 
a w hile spoke not a word. “ Come down with me 
into the parlour,” he said; and they did so. They 
all sat down, and there was yet silence. They 
feared to turn their eyes upon him, as he stood by 
himself in the midst of them — pallid, ghastly, shud- 
dering, — the big burning tears of guilt, and shame 
•ltd despair fulling down upon the floor. “ Lost 


246 


SIMON GRAY. 


am I in this world and the next . I have disgraced 
the onler to which I belong — I have polluted the 
church — I have insulted the God who made me, 
and tlie Saviour who redeemed me ! Oh ! never 
was there a sinner like unto me!” He dashed 
himself down on the floor — and beseeched that no 
one would lift him up. “ Let me hear your voices, 
while I hide my face. What have you to say unto 
your wretched minister? Say it quickly — and then 
leave me lying on the floor. Lift me not uj) I ” 
His body lay there, in this prostration of the 
spirit, before men who had all known him, loved 
him, respected him, venerated him, not more than 
one year ago. Much of that was now for ever 
gone ; but much remained unextinguishable in 
their hearts. Some of them were austere, and even 
stern men, of his own age, or older than he; but 
there ai‘e times and occasions when the sternest 
become the most compassionate. So was it now. 
They had come not to ujibraid or revile, — not even 
to rebuke. They brought with them sorrow and 
tribulation, and even anguish in their souls. For 
they knew that his ministry was at an end ; that 
Simon Gray was now nothing unto them but a 
fallen and frail being, whose miseries they them- 
selves, fallen and frail too, were by nature called 
upon to pity — and they wished, if possible, to give 
comfort and advice, and to speak with him of his 
future life. Why should they be stern or cruel to 
this man ? They had sat often and often at his 
simple board when his wife and family graced and 
blessed it ; — he, too, had often and often familiarly 
and brotherly sat in all their houses, humble, but 
scarcely more humble than his own — he had joined 
some of them in wedlock — baptized their children 
—remembered them in his public prayers, when 
any of them had oeen threatened with death — ha 


SIMON GKAV. 


247 


had prayed, too, by tlieir bedsides in their own 
houses — he had given them worldly counsel— and 
assisted them in their worldly trials — and was all 
this to be forgotten now? And were they to harden 
llmir hearts against him ? Or, were not all these 
things to be remembered with a grateful distinct- 
ness ; and to soften their hearts ; and even to be- 
dew their faces with tears ; and to fill their whole 
souls with pity, sorrow, affection, and the sadness 
of brotherly love towards him who, so good in 
many things, had at last been weighed in the 
balance and found wanting? They all felt alike 
now, however different their disposition and 
characters. They did not long suffer him to lie 
on the floor — they lifted him up — tried to comfort 
him — wept along with him, — and when the misera- 
ble man implored one of the number to offer a 
prayer for him, they all solemnly knelt down, and 
hoped that God, who was now called upon to for- 
give his sins, would extend his mercy to all the 
fellow-sinners who were then together upon their 
knees. 

Simoa Gray was no more a minister of the 
church of Scotland, and he left the parish. It was 
thought by many tliat he was dead — that shame 
and remorse, and the disease that clung close to 
his soul, had killed him at last. But it was not so. 
The hour was not yet come, and his death was 
destined to be of a different kind indeed. 

The unfortunate man had a brother, who, for 
many years, had lived on a great sheep-farm in 
Strathglass, a wild district of the northern High- 
lands. He had always stood high in the esteem 
and love of this uneducated, but intelligent farmer 
— he had visited him occasionally with his wife and 
children for a few days, and received similar visits 
lu return. This good aud worthy man had grieved 


248 


SIMON GRA1. 


for Simon s bereavement, and his subsequent 
frailties ; and now he opened the door of his house, 
and of his heart, to his degraded, and remorseful, 
and repentant brother. His own wife, his sons, 
and his daughters, needed not. to be told to treat 
with tenderness, respect, and j)ity, the most unfor- 
tunate man ; and on the evening when he came 
to their house, they received him with the most 
affectionate warmth, and seemed, by the cheerful- 
ness of their manners, not even to know of the 
miserable predicament in which he stood. Happy 
were all the young people to see their uncle in the 
Highlands, although at first they felt sad and al- 
most surprised to observe that he was dressed just 
like their father, in such clothes as become, on de- 
cent occasions, a hard-working labouring man, a 
little raised above the wants of the world. 

Even before the heart of poor Simon Gray had 
time to be touched, or at least greatly revived, by 
the unrestrained kindness of all those worthy peo- 
ple, the very change of scenery had no incon- 
siderable effect in shrouding in oblivion much of 
his past misery. Here, in this solitary glen, far, 
far away from all who had witnessed his vices and 
his degradation, he felt relitwed from a load of 
shame that had bowed him to the earth. Many 
jong miles of moor — many great mountains — 
many wide straths and glens — many immense lakes 
— aifd a thousand roaring streams and Hoods were 
now between him and the Manse of Seatoun — the 
kirk where he had been so miserably ex|iosed — 
and the air of his parish, that lay like a load on 
his eyes when they had dared to lift thetnselves up 
to the sunshine. Many enormous belts and girdles 
of rock separated him from all these ; he felt safe 
in his solitude from the power of excommunication ; 
and there was none to upbraid liiiu with their black. 


SIMON GRAY. 


249 


■ik’iit countenances, as he walked by himself along 
the heathery shores of a Highland loch, or plunged 
into a dark pine-forest, or lay upon the breast ot 
some enormous mountain, or sat by the roar ot 
some foaming cataract. And when he went int(» 
a lonely shealing, or a smoky hut, all the dwellers 
there were unknown to him, — and, blessed be God, 
he was unknown to them ; — their dress, their gaze, 
their language, their proffered food and refresh- 
ment, were all new — they bore no resemblance to 
what he had seen and heard in his former life. 
That former life was like a far-off, faint, and in- 
distinct dream. But the mountain, the forest, the 
glen, the cataract, the loch, the rocks, the huts, 
the deer, the eagles, the wild Gaelic dresses — -and 
that wilder speech — all were real, they constituted 
the being of his life now'; and, as the roar of the 
w'ind came down the glens, it sw'ept away the re 
membrance of his sins and his sorrows. 

But a stronger, at least a more permanent power, 
was in his brother’s house, and it was that from 
which his recovery or restoration was ultimately to 
proceed. 

The sudden desolation of his heart that in so 
orief a period had been robbed of all it held dear, 
had converted Simon Gray from temperance al- 
most austere, into a most pitiable state of vicious 
indulgence ; and his sudden restoration now to 
domestic comfort and objects of interest to a good 
man’s human feeling, began to work almost as 
wonderful a conversion from that w'retched habit to 
his former virtue. New eyes were upon him — new 
hearts opened towards him — new voices addressed 
him with kindness — new' objects were presented 
to his mind. The dull, dreary, silent, forsaken, 
and haunted Manse, where every room swarmed 
with unendurable thoughts, was exchanged f«r aa 


250 


SIMON GRAY. 


abode entirely free from all recollections and asso 
ciiitions, either too affecting or too afflicting. The 
simple gladness that reigned in his brother’s house 
stole insensibly into his soul, reviving and reno- 
vating it with feelings long unknown. There was 
no violent or extravagant joy in which he could 
not partake, and that might form a distressing and 
galling contrast with his own grief. A homely hap- 
piness was in the house, in every room, and about 
every person, and he felt himself assimilated, with- 
out effort of his own, in some measure to the cheer- 
ful, blameless, and industrious beings with whom 
it was now his lot to associate. He had thought 
himself lost, but he felt that he might yet be saved; 
he had thought himself excommunicated from the 
fellowship of the virtuous, but he felt himself treat- 
ed, not only with affection, but respect, by his ex- 
cellent brother, all his nephews and nieces, and 
the servants of the house. His S3ul hoped that its 
degradation was not utter and irretrievable. Hu- 
man beings, he began to see, could still love, still 
respect, even while they pitied him; and this feel- 
ing of being not an outcast from his kind, encou- 
raged him humbly to lift his eyes up to God, and 
less ruefully, and not with such bitter agony, to 
prostrate himself in prayer. 

He thus found himself lifted out of the den of 
perdition ; — and, escaped into the clear unhaunted 
light, he felt unspeakable horror at the thought of 
voluntarily flinging himself back again among 
these dreadful agonies. His brother rejoiced to 
behold the change so unexpectedly sudden in all 
his habits ; and when they went out together in the 
evenings to walk among the glens, that simple 
man laid open to Simon all his heart — spoke to 
him of all his affairs — requested his advice — and 
behaved towards him with such entire and sincere 


SIMON GRA\. 


251 


respeci; and affection, that the fallen man felt en 
titled ao^ain to hold up his head, and even enjoyed 
hours of internal peace and satisfaction, which at 
first he was afraid to suffer, lest they might be thf 
offspring of apathy or delusion. But day after 
day they more frequently returned and more last- 
ingly remained ; and then Simon Gray believed 
that God was, indeed, accepting his repentance, 
and that his soul might yet not be utterly lost. 

Simon Gray went out with the servants to their 
work, himself a servant. He worked for his bro- 
ther and his children, and while his body was bent, 
and his hands were busy, his heart was at rest. 
The past could not take direful possession of him 
when labouring in the fields, or in the garden, or 
in the barn, or searching for sheep in snow or tem- 
pest, with his brother or his nephews. The pure 
fresh air blew around his temples — the pure fresh 
water was his drink — toil brought hunger which the 
simple meal appeased — and for every meal that his 
brother blest, did he himself reverently return 
thanks to God. So was it settled between them ; 
and Simon Gray, on such occasions, in fervid elo- 
quence, expressed his heart. He rose with the light 
or the lark — all his toils were stated — all his hours 
of rest ; and in a few months he was even like one 
who, from his boyhood, had been a shepherd or a 
tiller of the earth. 

In this humble, laborious, and, it may be said, 
happy life, years passed over his head, which was 
now getting white. Suffice it to say, that once 
more Simon Gray was as tempemte as a hermit. 
He knew — he remembered — he repented all his 
former shameful transgressions. But now they 
were to him only as a troubled dream. Now, 
too, could he bear to think on all his former life 
before he was tried and fell — of his beloved Su- 


252 


SIMON GRAY. 


Banna and the children sleeping by her side in 
Seatoun church-yard — and of that dear, hut guilty 
hoy, who died in a foreign land. In his solitary 
labours in the field, or on his chaff* bed, his mind, 
and his heart, and his soul were often in the happy 
iManse of former years. He walked in the garden 
and down the burn-side, through the birch-wood, 
and by the little waterfall, with his wife, and boys, 
and girl ; and then could he bear to think of the 
maiiy, many Sabbaths he had officiated in his own 
kirk, on all the baptisms and that other greater 
Sacrament, administered, on beautiful weather, 
in the open air, and beneath the shadow of that 
wide-armed sycamore. Calmly, now, and with an 
untroubled spirit, did he think on all these things; 
for he was reconciled to his present lot, which he 
knew must never be changed, and to his humbled 
heart came soothingly and sweet all the voices of 
the dead, and all the shadows of the past. He 
knew now the weakness of his own soul. Re- 
morse and penitence had brought up all its secrets 
before him ; and in resignation and coiitentment, 
morning and evening, did he for all his gracious 
mercies praise God. 

Simon had taught his brother’s children, and they 
all loved him as their very father. Some of theii 
faces were like the faces of their dead cousins ; 
and some of them bore the very same voices. So 
seemed it thal his very children were restored to 
him — the ])ower of the grave was weakened over 
his heart— and though he sometimes felt, and said 
himself, that the living, though like the dead, were 
not his own blessed creatures, yet he gave them 
u}) all of a father’s heart that was not buried in 
those graves which had so quickly, one after the 
other, employed the old sexton’s spade. And oft* 
en, uo doubt, when liis heart was jierfectly cahu 


SIMON GRAY. 


253 


«i»d happy, did lie love his brother’s children even 
p ne nad lOved his own. 

Many years thus passed away, and with them 
a most all tradition, in this part of the country, of 
Simon’s degradation from the clerical order. It 
had faded in simple hearts occupied with their own 
feelings; and when he was in company Avith others 
at church or market, not even those who kneAv all 
the circumstances of his case could be said to re- 
member them ; they saw before them only a plain, 
simple, grave, and contented person like them- 
selves, in an humble Atalk of life. Simon’s own 
mind had been long subdued to his lot. He fell 
himself to be Avhat he appeared ; and he was dis- 
tinguishable from his brother, Avhom in asjiect and 
figure he greatly resembled, only by an air of su 
perior intelligence and cultivation. His iiand> 
were, like his brother’s, hardened by the imple • 
nieiits of labour; his face was as embrowned by 
the sun ; and his dress, on Aveek-day and Sabbath, 
alike [ilain, and in all respects that of a respectable 
tenant. It seemed noAv that he Avas likely to ter- 
minate his blameless life in peace. 

H is brother Avas noAV obliged to go to the Loav- 
lands on the affairs of* his fann,*and so many years 
having elapsed since Simon’s degradation, he felt 
an irresistible desire to revisit, once before he died, 
the neighbourhood at least of the dear parish once 
his OAvn, if not the dear parish itself. Many must 
have noAV forgotten him ; and indeed ten years, 
at his period of life, and all his severe miseries, had 
done tile Avork of tAventy — so, although but sixty 
years of age, he seemed at least a man of three- 
score and ten. Accordingly he accompanied his 
brother to the LoAvlands — once more Avalked about 
the streets and scjuares of the city, Avhere so many 
changes had taken place that he scarcely knew 


254 


SIMON GRAY. 


his way, and where tne very population itse.f 
seemed entirely phanged He felt comforted that 
n) eye rested upon him; and next day — -a fine 
clear bright frost, and the ground covered with 
snow — he went with his brother to a village distant 
about ten miles only from his own Manse of Sea- 
toun. But a river and two ranges of hill lay be 
tween — so there was little danger of his meeting 
any one who w iuld recognize him to have been 
the minister of ?liat parish. Simon was happy, 
but thoughtful, and his nearness to the place of 
his former life, did not, he thought, affect him so 
powerfully, at least not so overwhelmingly as he 
had expected. A party of farmers from different 
districts dined together, and after dinner one of 
them, whose treatment of Simon, though not ab- 
solutely insulting, had been rude and boisterous 
all day, began to indulge in very brutal talk, and 
to swallow liquor with an evident design to pro- 
duce intoxication. Simon endeavoured to avoid 
all conversation with this person, but on one occa- 
sion could not avoid gently remonstrating with him 
on his grossness. He also kindly dissuaded him 
from drinking too much, a sin of which, from bit- 
ter experience, he fiad known the miserable effects, 
and of which, he had in many others wrought the 
cure. But his remonstrance enraged the young 
farmer, who, it seems, came from the parish of 
S'eatoun, and knew Simon’s whole history. He 
burst out into the most ferocious invectives against 
his reprover, and soon showed that he was but too 
intimately acquainted with all the deplorable and 
degrading circumstances of the case. In the 
coarsest terms he informed the whole company 
who they had got among them ; directed their at- 
ter.tion to the solemn hypocrisy of his countenance ; 
RBsured them that his incontinence had not been 


SIMON URAY. 


255 


confined to drinking ; and that even in the Iligli 
lands, the old sinner had corrupted the menials in 
his brother’s house, and was the reproacli of ah 
the Lowlanders that visited Strathglass. 

This sudden, unprovoked, and unexpected bru- 
tality annihilated Simon’s Jong-gathered fortitude. 
The shocking, coarse, and unfeeling words Avere 
not all false — ind they brought upon his troubled 
and sickening heart not the remembrance of his 
woful transgression, but it may be said its very 
presence. Ten years of penitence, and peace, 
and virtue, and credit, were at once destroyed, — 
to him they were as nothing, — -and he was once 
more Simon Gray the sinner, the drunkard, the 
disgraced, the degraded, the madman. He looked 
around liim, and it seemed as if all eyes were fixed 
upon him with pity, or contempt, or scorn. He 
heard malicious whisperings, curious interrogf' 
tories, and stifled laughter; and, loud over all, thi 
outrageous and brutal merriment of his insulter, 
the triumphant peal of self-applauding brutality, 
and the clenclied hand struck upon the table in 
confirmation of the truth of his charge, and in de- 
fiance of all gainsayers. Simon Gray saw — heard 
no more. He rushed out of the room in an agony 
of shame and despair, and found himself standing 
alone in the darkness. 

He thanked God that it was a wild, stormy, 
winter-night. The farmers had not ventured to 
mount their horses in that snow-drift ; but Simon 
turned his face to the flaky blast, and drove along 
knee-deep, turning a deaf ear to his brother’s voice 
which he heard shouting his name. He knew not 
whither he was then ushing ; for as yet he had 
no determined purpose his mind. One wish 
alone had he at this hour , and that was to fall 
down and die. But the snow was not so deep a 


256 


SIMON GRAY. 


short w aj out of the village, and the energy which 
his despair had given his limbs enabled him to pur- 
sue His solitary race through the howling darkness ol 
the night. He noticed nothing but the tops of 
the hedges on each side that marked out the road ; 
and witiiout aim or object, but a dim hope of 
death, or a passion for the concealing and hiding 
darkness, he thus travelled several miles, till he 
found himself entering upon a wide common or 
moor. “ I am on the edge of the moor,” he ex- 
claimed to himself, “ the moor of my own parish; 
my own Seatoun. No eye can see me — blessed 
be God, no eye can see me — but mine eyes can 
see the shape of the small swelling hills and 
mounts, covered though they be with snow, and 
neither moon nor stars in heaven. Yes, 1 will 
walk on, now that I am here, right on to the kirk 
of Seatoun, and will fall down upon my knees at 
the door of God’s House, and beseech Him, after 
all my repentance, to restore to peace my discon- 
solate, my troubled, and despairing soul.” 

There had been but little change for ten years 
in that pastoral parish. Tlie small wooden bridge 
across the Ewebank stood as it did before, and, as 
his feet made it shake below him, Simon’s heart 
was tilled with a crowd of thoughts. He was now 
within a few hundred yards of the Manse tliat hud 
so long been his own, and he stood still, and trem- 
bled, and shivered, as the rush of thoughts assailed 
fiim from the disturbed world of the past. He 
moved on. A light was in the parlour window — 
tire same room in which he used to sit with his 
wife and children. Perhaps he wept by himself 
in the darkness. But he hurried on — he passed 
the mouth of the little avenue — the hedges and 
shrubs seemed but li*le grown, through a pale 
glimmer in the sky, wliile a blast had blown awaj 










inister "■°" >“= know the face 


miuister. 

Lights axd Shadows. 


of his former 


1 


rage 257 




THE RAINBOW. 


2S7 


tome clouds from before the yet liidden m( on, he 
saw the spire of his own kirk. The little gate was 
shut, but he knew well to open the latch. With 
a strange wild mixture of joy and despair he reach- 
ed the door of the kirk, and falling down prostrate 
in the pelting snow, he kissed the cold stone be- 
lealh his cheek, and with a breaking heart ejacu- 
.ated, “ O God ! am I forgiven ; and wilt thou 
take me, through the intercession of thy Son, at 
last into thy holy presence ?” 

It snowed till midnight ; and the frost was bit- 
ter cold, Next morning was the Sabbath ; and 
the old Sexton, on going to sweep the little path 
from the church-yard gate to the door of the 
church, found what was seemingly a corpse, lying, 
there half covered with the drift. He lifted up the 
head ; and well did he know the face of his former 
minister. The hair was like silver that formerly 
had been a bright brown ; but the expression of 
the dead man’s countenance was perfectly serene 
— and the cold night had not been felt by Simon 
Grav- 


THE RAINBOW. 

A SOLITARY pedestrian was roaming over the 
glens and mountains in a wild district of the Nor- 
thern Highlands of Scotland, when a rainbow be- 
gan to form itself over part of the magnificent 
landscape. He was, not without reason, a melan- 
choly and grief-haunted man ; and the growing 
beauty of that apparition -insensibly touched hi 
heart with a de ightful happiness to which he ha. 


258 


THE BAIIVBOW'. 


for a considerable time been a stranger. As tlie 
varied brightness of the arch which as yet was 
scarcely united, but showed only several glowing 
fragments, grad jally became more vivid, his whole 
Dcing felt a sympathetic exhilaration ; despon- 
dency and sorrow faded away, and he once more 
exulted in the natural freedom of the prime of 
life. While he was g*azing, the rainbow became, 
perfect, and bound the earth and heaven togetlier 
in a span of joy. The glory illuminated two 
mountains, and the glen between them opening 
up beneath that effulgence, appeared to be a majes- 
tic entrance into another and more magniticent 
world. The sides of these two mountains, rent 
with chasms and tumbling torrents, were steeped 
in the beautiful stains of tlie arch, so that the rocks 
seemed clothed with purple, and the waterfalls to 
roll down in gold. As the rainbow begun to dis- 
solve, the summit of the arch gave way, and the 
gorgeous colours, forsaking the sky, embodied 
themselves in a mass of splendour on each side 
of that wide glen. For a few moments the edge 
of each mountain was veiled and hidden in that 
radiance; but it gradually melted away into colour- 
less air, the atmosphere was again open, and a 
few showery clouds seen hanging opposite the sun, 
were all that remained to tell of the vanished rain- 
bow. But all the green fields and all the woods were 
glittering in freshened beauty — the birds were sing- 
ing ; the cattle lowing on the hills; and the raven 
and the kite were aloft in heaven. There was u 
jubilee — and the lonely jnan who had been sittina 
on a rock, entranced in that vision, rose up, and 
.nwardly said, “Let my way lie up that glen, 
whose glorious portal has vanished ; let me walk 
beneath what w^as like a triumphal arch but a mo- 
ment ago, into the solitary magnificence of nature. ’ 


THE RAINBOW. 


359 


The Eremite pursued his way up the Avooded 
bunks of a stony torrent, and on reaclung tlie sum- 
mit of the cliffs, saw before him a long expanse of 
black sullen moor — which he crossed — and a 
beautiful vale suddenly expanded below his feet, 
with cultivated fields, woods, and groves, and 
among many huts sprinkled about like rocks, one 
mansion to which they all seemed to apjiertain, 
and which, without any grandeur, yet suited in its 
unpretending and venerable solemnity the charac- 
ter of that lonely and lovely place. He descended 
into the vale, and happy he knew not why, walked 
along the widening stream, till he found himself in 
a lawn, and close by the mansion which he had 
discerned from the hill above, but which had till 
now been concealed by a grove. At this moment, 
just as he was about to turn back, two ladies stood 
close beside him, and with a slight embarrassment 
tlie stranger explained to them how unconsciously 
he had been led to intrude upon their privacy, and 
after that salutation, was about to retire. But the 
impression which elegant and cultivated minds 
make on each other in a moment, when unex- 
pectedly brought together in a situation calculated 
to show something of their character, now prevent- 
ed so sudden a parting, — and they who had thus 
casually met, having entered into conversation, 
began in a few minutes to feel almost like friends. 
The stranger, who had been led into this vale by 
a sort of romantic impulse, could not help feeling 
as if this meeting were almost an adventure. And 
it was no doubt an impressive thing to a young 
Englishman wandering ainongthe Highland im un- 
tains, to form an acquaintance in this way with 
two such persons as those Avith whom he was now 
engaged in pleasant conversation. They seemed 
to be mother and daughter ; — and when, after about 


£60 


THE RAINBOW. 


half an hour’s walk, the stranger found himself Ie 
a spacious and elegant room, the guest of a high- 
bred and graceful lady in a widow’s weeds, and 
apparently with one beautiful daughter in her re- 
tirement, he could scarcely help thinking that the 
vague imagination which had led him thither un- 
der the rainbow’s arch, might have some influence 
even on the complexion of his future life. He had 
long been a melancholy man ; and minds of that 
character are often the most apt to give way to 
sudden emotions of gladness. He closed up all 
remembrance of one fatal incident in his life under 
a heap of fresh-springing and happy thoughts and 
feelings ; and animated by the novelty of his situa- 
tion, as well as by the interesting character of 
those whose hospitality he was now sharing, never 
had he felt so free from anxiety and sorrow, and 
so like his former self, nor so capable of the en- 
joyment of life and every thing around him that 
was beautiful and enlivening. As the evening 
drew on, his heart was sad to think that, as he had 
come a stranger, so like a stranger must he be 
departing ; but these few hours had sunk into his 
heart, and he would remember them as long as 
he lived, and in the remotest parts of the earth. 

Does it require long time, days, weeks, months, 
and years, to enable human beings to love one 
another 't Does the human heart slowly and sus- 
piciously lay up one kind thought after another, 
till the measure of its affection be fuil 1 May 
gentle words and kindling smiles pass from the 
lips, and yet the heart remain cold and untouched, 
and willing to lose sight of, and to forget, the ol>- 
ject of its transitory tenderness? It may be so 
with many, for the accidents of time teach different 
lessons, all equally necessary and vi holesome per- 
haps t) different hearts ; but before human nature 


THE RAINBOW. 


261 


nas been sorely afflicted, tried, or deceived, its 
temper is opened to kindness and to joy ; and at- 
tracted by the sympathies of a common nature, 
why may not those who are strargers to-day, be 
friends to-morrow 1 Nor does the deepest afflic 
tion always close up the fountains of love in the 
numan soul. The saddest turn often is sudden 
restoration to the gay and joyful ; like light stream- 
ing in upon a prisoner through the bars of his 
dungeon, is the smile on faces not yet bedimmed 
by grief, to the man of many miseries ; and he who 
hugs his sorrow close to his soul, will often at once 
laydown that rueful burden to which he has so long 
clung with infatuated despair at the sight of youth, 
beauty, and innocence, rejoicing before him in 
jntamed, fearless, and triumphant bliss. There 
are often, also, sudden revelations of sympathy 
made between human beings by a word, a tone, a 
look, or a smile ; truth is then conveyed suddenly 
and easily into their spirits, and from that moment 
they rest assured of each other’s affection, and 
each other’s 'worth, as much as if they had been 
mutually known for years. If there were not 
riiese strong and prevailing tendencies in our na- 
ture, the paths of human life would be barren in- 
deed ; or the friendships that spring up over them 
would, in general, be sown by the hand of interest 
or self-love. But nature follows other processes ; 
and love and friendship, at first sight, often spring 
up as necessarily as flowers expand from bud into 
blossom, in the course of a few sunny and dewy 
hours of one vernal morning. 

The young English stranger felt this when the 
lour of his departure was come, and when the 
mother and daughter accompanied him down the 
vale, ii the dusk of the evening, on his way from 
fllei'-Creran, never more to return. Little 


262 


THE RAINBOftr 


said as they walked along, and they who, a few 
houi-s before, had not known of each other’s ex- 
istence, were now about to say farewell with sighs, 
almost with tears. At length the strangei; paused, 
and said, “ Never will I forget this day, this glen, 
and those from whom I now part. I M ill remem- 
ber them all, when my soul is sad, which it ever 
must be as long as I live. Take the blessing of a 
wounded heart. Ladies, farewell and his eyes, 
dim with emotion, at that moment met those of 
that beautiful maiden, turned upon him M’ith a 
heavenly expression of pity, and at last even stain- 
ed with irrepressible tears. A black scowl M^as in 
the heavens, and darkened the green mount on 
which they stood ; a long dreary sigh of wind came 
rustling down the vale, and there was a low mut- 
tering of distant thunder. “ This will be a night 
of storms,” said the lady, looking kindly towards 
the stranger. “ It is not Highland hospitality to 
let’ a guest depart at dark, and in tempest — you 
must return with us to our house;” and a huge 
thunderous cloud, that overshadowed half the vale, 
was an argument not to be resisted ; — so the jiarty 
returned together ; and just as they reached the 
house, the long loud rattle was heard along the 
hills, and the river, swollen on a sudden by the de- 
luging rain, roared along the swinging M oods, till 
the whole valley was in a tumult. It was a true 
Highland night ; and the old house rocked like a 
ship at sea. 

But the walls of the mansion (which had once 
been a sort of castle) were thick and massy, and 
the evening passed happily along within, while the 
thunder, and the woods, and the torrents, and the 
blasts, were all raging without in or e united and 
most dismal howl. These ladies had not passed 
all their lives in a Highland glen, and they cc n 


THE RAINBOW'. 


203 


rersed with their guest about foreign countries 
which they had all visited. The harp was touched, 
and the wild Gaelic airs srunded still more wildly 
among the fitful pauses of the storm. She who 
played and sung was no sorceress inhabiting an 
enchanted castle ; but she was a young, graceful, 
and beautiful girl of nineteen, innocent as beauti- 
ful, and therefore a more powerful sorceress than 
any that ever wound the invisible lines of her 
spell round a knight of Romance. At the con- 
cltision of one air, a Chieftain’s Lament, the mother 
heaved a deep sigh ; and in the silence that ensued, 
the artless girl said to the stranger, who w'as stand- 
ing beside her, entranced by the wailing strain, 
“ My poor dead brother used to love that air, — I 
ought not to have sung it.” But that mood passed 
away; and before retiring to rest, the stranger 
said gaily, “ Your wandering guest’s name is 
Ashton.” “We are Stuarts,” was the reply; and 
in an hour the house w'as buried in sleej). 

The stranger alone was wakeful. Not for several 
years had he been so happy as during this day 
and evening; and the image of that lovely girl be- 
side her harp, sweetly singing, while the wild night 
was roaring in the glen, could not leave his 
thoughts. Even when, towards morning, he fell 
asleep, she was in his dreams; and then it seemed 
as if they had long been friends — as if they were 
oetrothed — and had fixed their marriage-day. From 
these visions he awoke, and heard the sound of the 
mountain torrent roaring itself to rest, and the 
trees swinging less fiercely in the weakened blast. 
He then recollected where he was — his real con- 
dition returned upon him — and that sweet maiden 
was then to him only a phantom once seen, and 
to smile upon him no m ^re. He rose at sunrise, 
and, from the window, contemplated the gradual 


264 


THE RAINBOW, 


dying away of the storm — the subsiding of tlie tor 
rent that became visibly less and less every mimito 
— the calm that slowly settled on the woods — ^tha 
white mists rolling up the mountain’s side — till, ai 
last, a beautiful, calm, serene, and sunny day took 
possession of the sky, and Glen-Creran lay below, 
in smiling and joyful beauty, a wild paradise, 
where the world might be forgotten, and human 
life pass away like a dream. 

It was the Sabbath-day, and Glen-Creran, that, 
a few hours ago, had been as loud as the sea, was 
now not only hushed in the breathing repose ot 
nature, but all rural labour was at rest ; and it 
might almost have been said, that the motionless 
clouds, the deep blue vault, the fragrant air, and the 
still earth, were all united together in one sweet spirit 
of devotion. No shepherd shouted on the moun- 
tain — no reapers were in the half-shorn fields, — 
and the fisherman’s net was hung up to dry in the 
sunshine. When the party met again in the par- 
lour, whose wide window opening down to the 
floor let in the pure fragrance of the roses and ho- 
neysuckles, and made the room a portion, as it 
were, of the rich wooded scenery, there was blended 
with the warmth and kindliness of the morning 
salutation, a solemn expression belonging to the 
hallowed day, and to the religious state of feeling 
which it inspired. The subdued and almost me- 
lancholy air of the matron was now more touch- 
ing and impressive, as she was dressed in darker 
widow’s weeds for the house of God ; and the 
sweet countenance of Mary Stuart, which the 
night before had beamed with almost a wild glad- 
ness, was now breathed over by a pensive piety, so 
truly beautiful at all times on a woman’s features. 
The kirk was some miles distant; but they were 
prepared to walk to it ; and Edward Ashton, with 


THE RAINBOW. 


265 


out speaking on the subject at all, accompanied 
them on their way to divine service. 

To an Englishman, who had never before seen 
a Highland Sabbath, the scene was most df light- 
fiil, as the opening of every little glen brought 
upon him some new interesting group, journeying 
tranquilly towards Appin Kirk. Families were 
coming down together into the wider strath, from 
their green nests among the solitude ; and friendly 
greetings were interchanging on all sides, in that 
wild tongue, which, to his ear, seemed so well 
suited to a land of mountains. The many-coloured 
Highland tartan, mixed with the pure white of 
dresses from the Lowlands, and that mingling of 
dift’erent costumes in the same group, gave intima- 
tion of the friendly intercourse now subsisting 
constantly between the dwellers of hill and of 
plain. No haughty equipages came sweeping by. 
Almost all the assembling congregation were OJi 
foot- here and there an old man on a rough moun- 
tain pony — there perhaps a man and wife on a 
stronger steed — and there a cart with an invalid, 
or the weak and aged, with a due accompaniment 
of children. The distinction of ranks was still 
visible, but it was softened down by one pervading 
spirit of humble Christianity. So trooped they 
along to the house of God — the clear tinkle of the 
bell was heard — the seats were filled — and the 
whole vale echoed to the voice of ])salms. Divine 
service was, at this time, performed in the English 
language, and the kirk was decently silent in sin- 
cere aiid unostentatious devotion. 

During the service the Englishman chanced to 
fix his eyes on a small marble monumental slab in 
the wall above the seat, and he read these words 
—Sacred to the Memory of Charles Stuart, 
LATE Captain in the Forty-second llEuiMENr, 

o«'» 


266 


THE RAINBOW. 


WHO DIED AT ViENNA, 3 d Augijst, 17 — . A mor 
tal sickness instantly struck his heart, and in that 
agony, which was indeed almost a swoon of the 
soul, he wished that he were dead, or buried in 
solitude many thousand miles away from the place 
where he now sat. He fixed his eyes upon the 
countenances — first of the mother — and then of 
ncr daughter; and a resemblance, which he had 
not discovered before, now grew upon him stronger 
and stronger, to one in his grave, and whom he 
jnce would have sacrificed his own life to re-ani- 
rnate. He was sitting in the house of God with 
the mother and sister of the man whose blood he 
had shed! The place — the name — the day of the 
month — left no possibility of doubt. And now 
many other corroborative circumstances came 
upon him in that ghastly fit. He remembered the 
daughter saying after that lament sung to the harp, 
“ I ought not to have sung it ; — for my jioor dead 
brother used to delight in that air.” The murderer 
of that poor dead brother had come wandering to 
a solitary mansion among the mountains, impelled 
by some evil spirit, and was now sitting below his 
monument along with her who had given him 
birth. But every one was intent upon the service 
of God — and his white face, white as a sheet, was 
observed by none. By degrees he felt the blood 
circulating again from his stricken heart — he began 
to breathe more freely, and had just strength to 
stand up when the congregation rose to jiraver. 
He saw glimmering and unsteady beside him the 
meek placid countenances of the widow and her 
da ighler — ar d turned away his eyes from them, to 
fix them again on that inscription to which they 
were drawn by a hideous spell. He heard not the 
closing benediction — but was relieved in some de- 
gree by the fresh air that whispered throuoli the 


TOE RAINBOW, 


267 


trees, as he found himself walkirg by the side of 
his almost unseen companions through the tliurcli- 
yard. “ 1 fear, sir, you are ill,” said Mary Stuart, 
in a sweet and hurried tone of voice — and no othei 
answer was given but a long deep groan, that 
sounded as if it rose up in pangs from the bottom 
of a broken heart. 

They walked along together in sorrow, fear and 
astonishment, at this sudden change in the looks 
of their new friend, whose eyes, when they ven- 
tured to look towards either of them, were wild 
and ghastly, and every glance accompanied with 
a deeper and a bitterer sigh. “ For the love o! 
Grod — let us, if possible, retire from the crowd-— 
and lead me to some retired place, that 1 may ut- 
ter a few words, and then hide myself for ever 
from your faces.” 

They walked along a footpath that winded 
through a coppice wood, and crossing a plank 
over a rivulet, in a few moments they were in a 
little glen, as lonely as if it had been far among 
the mountains. “ No houses are in this direction,” 
said the mother, somewhat agitated and alarmed, 
she knew not why — and they sat down together 
on a seat that had been cut out of the turf by the 
hands of some shepherd, or schoolboy, in his 
hours of play. “ Mary, bring some water from 
that pool — Mr. Ashton looks as if about to faint. 
My dear sir, are you better now ?” and the beau- 
tiful girl bathed his forehead with the cold limpid 
water, till he felt the sickness depart, and his soul 
revive. 

He rose up from the seat, and looking stead 
fastly on their countenances, and then lifting his 
eyes to Heaven, he sunk down on his knees before 
them — and said, My name is now Ashton, but 
it wa.s not always so — hateful, horrible, and ao* 


288 


THE RAINBOV. 


cursed, must that other name be to your cars— 
the name of Edward Sitwell. 

The mother uttered a faint shriek, and her head 
fell back, while the daughter sat down by her side, 
and clasped her arms with loud sobs around her 
neck. The stranger remained upon his knees, 
with his hands clasped, and his eyes fixed upon 
them who now beheld him not, for many a wild 
thought was hurrying through their hearts. At 
length the widow looked towards him with a dim 
and changeful expression, and then covering her 
eyes with both her hands, indistinctly said, “ Fatal 
— fatal name indeed — has God brought before me, 
on his bended knees, the man beneath whose 
sw'jrd my dear Charles died 1 Oh ! God of mercy, 
teach me how 1 should feel in this wild and most 
sudden trial.” “ Pray for me — pray for me to 
God — and also intercede for me with your mother 
when I am far away — for believe me when I say, 
that I have not had many happy days since that 
fatal event,” — and, rising from the ground, the 
stranger was about to depart. But there was 
something so irresistibly detaining in tlie pity that 
was fast streaming from the eyes of poor Mary 
Stuart, to whom he had addressed himself, that he 
stood riveted to the spot ; and he thought, too, that 
the face of the mother began to look with less hor- 
ror upon him, and seemed eloudcd with a humane 
and Christian compassion He said nothing in 
his own vindication — he uttered a few words in 
praise of the dead — and standing before them, 
with his pale cheeks, and convulsed sobs, and qui- 
vering lips, the sincerity of his sorrow and contri- 
tion could not but affect their souls, and bring 
over their gradually subsiding aversion a deep 
feeling of sympathy for him who felt so profoundly 
bis own guilt. “ Go nut away from us, till wc 


THE RAINnOW. 


269 


have both forgiven y( u — yes — i(>c('ivo bis niolber’s 
forgiveness, and may your soul liiid j(;st from re- 
morse, as mine lias found rest from grief.” 

Three years had elapsed since the deatl*. of he. 
son abroad in that duel, and the soul of this excellent 
woman had reached the ultimate stage of resisfiia 
tion. When, therefore, she recovered from that 
cold, damp feeling of horror and aversion, breath- 
ed over her by the presence of one whom, when 
the tidings of her son’s death first came to her, sht 
had thought of almost as a murderer, she began to 
reflect on the few words he had uttered, and on the 
profound passion manifest in all his behaviour. 
In spite of her natural repugnance, she could not 
help feeling that he might have fallen in that quar- 
rel instead of her beloved son — that there were no 
circumstances dishonourable or cruel attending it 
— and that by his own confession the day before, 
when ignorant into whose house he had wandered, 
he had for a long time led a life of melancholy anfl 
despondence, arising from the remembrance of that 
event. His mild and gentle manners — his intelli- 
gent and cultivated mind — and the unequivocal 
symptoms of sensibility and humane emotions 
which his whole looks, conversation, and deport- 
ment had exhibited, pleaded for him not in vain ; 
and when she looked upon him once more in the 
calmness of exhausted passion, the mother, who 
through his means had been deprived of an only 
son, felt that she had wronged him by the violence 
of her feelings, and that it would be right, generous, 
forgiving, and pious, to raise him up from that fit 
of passion, and to look on him as unerring brother, 
to whom she knew her brave boy had been recon- 
ciled on his death-bed, and who had held his hand 
when he breathed his last. There was something 
too, in the sacred influence of the Sabbath-day tha. 


270 


THE RAINBOW. 


at once softened and comforted her heart ; he had 
walked with her and her daurrhter to worship God in 
that little humble kirk, and ought she not now to 
practise those lessons of perfect forgiveness of all 
injuries, he they what they might, enjoined by that 
religion in which it was her blessing to believe 1 
“Why should I have looked,” thought she, “ with 
such abhorrence and creeping of the blood on this 
young man ? My boy is in his grave — I trust in 
heaven — God has been merciful unto me — and 
therefore let me now still my beating heart, and 
administer comfort, since he needs it so much, to 
one whom not chance, but Providence, has brought 
to be my guest.” Such thoughts, when they had 
once entered her heart, found a permanent abode 
there — she was restored to a tranquillity wonder- 
ful evett to herself — and taking Edward Ashton by 
the hand, she told him with a faint smile, that he 
must not so leave them, and plunge alone into the 
dreary solitude of those black mountains, but ac- 
company them back to the house, and as they had 
joined together in the public worship of God, so 
would they that night kneel down together before 
going to rest, and beseech Him to be merciful to 
them who m*re all alike sinners. 

During all this time, Mary Stuart had stood pale 
and breathless as a statue, drinking in every word 
her mother uttered, marking every tone of her 
voice and every change of expression upon her 
countenance. She had been a mere girl when 
her brother went abroad, and though she remem- 
bered him well, and had loved him with all the 
tender enthusiasm of childhood, yet her growing 
thoughts and feelings towards a thousand new ob- 
jects, calculated by their nature to interest and de- 
light her heart, had grown ever that early allliction ; 
and when she looked . at her brother’s picture ou 


THE RAINBOW 


271 


tlie wal. of her bed-room, or the inscription on the 
marble slab in the kirk, it was with a perfectly calm 
spirit, without vain repining or regret, and with a 
pleasant revival of old remembrances otherwise 
half obliterated. When, therefore, shfe saw her 
mother once more reconciled to the presence of 
their guest, and willing that one so mournfully con- 
nected with their fate in life, and so strangely 
brought to them, should not wander off for ever 
thus forlorn and despairing, her soul rejoiced within 
her, the former brightness of her visage was re- 
stored, and once more the smile was seen that 
mantles from a heart made happy, without and al- 
most against its will, in the power of its purity and 
innocence. 

As they walked back through Glen-Creran to 
the old mansion, the character of the weather — of 
the scenery — of the day, seemed to them all to have 
undergone a change. A more sober music was 
in the rills; the sky was not so dazzlingly clear; a 
dim shadow crept over the sweet Loch-Phoil — and, 
as if a hawk had been in the air, the voice of every 
bird was silent in the woods. Few vvords were 
uttered, but these few became always less and less 
unhappy; and as the lady and her daughter once 
more welcomed the English guest beneath their 
gate, it was with a profound feeling, in which aver- 
sion, dislike, or repugnance had no share — all 
these had vanished- — although, when they sat down 
together in the parlour, there was first an utter 
silence, and then several sobs and a gush of tears. 
A few hours ago he was an interesting stranger 
about to pass away into oblivion — now he was one 
whom they never could forget — and whom tlu.-y 
both felt must be for ever regarded by them, tow 
that the first startling agony was over, with afi’co* 
don for his own sake, with pity for his misfortune 


2T2 


THli RlINBOVr. 


and with sympatliy for the contrition which he en 
dured for an act which he, more than theinselvei 
or others, regarded as a heinous crime. 

The mother and daughter retired to their owi 
room early in the evening, and Edward Ashton 
was left to his own thoughts. He went out into 
the glen, and walked about the beautiful calm 
woods till his soul was soothed with the untroubled 
solitude. He had seen those whom in all the world 
he had most feared ever to see — and gentle looks 
and kind words had flowed mutually from each 
other’s hearts. They were both perfectly happy 
— their grief had passed away — and he began to 
hope, that, after his long penance, for him too 
there was to be peace. Across all these thoughts 
came insensibly the image of sweet Mary Stuart, 
and he almost ventured to ask himself, “ Does she 
love any one — or has her gentle heart been left to 
itself in her native solitude 1” This was a passing 
dream — but it passed away only to return ; and 
when he met her again, just as the heavens were 
beginning to show their stars, he felt towards her 
an aflection so tender and profound, that he won- 
dered how a day could have produced it ; but then 
he considered what a day that had been, and he 
wondered no more. 

All the domestics now came into the room, some 
of them old gray-haired people, who had been faith- 
ful servants to several generations, and Mary Stu- 
art read to them several chapters from the Bible. It 
was a calm and happy scene ; and as a halo, in old 
pictures, is drawn round the heads of saints, it 
might well seem to him who looked on her, and 
listened to her gentle voice, that a halo now encir- 
cled the fair temples of Mary Stuart, as they bent 
down with their clustering ringlets over the Word 
of God. 


THE RAINBOW. 


273 


His tlioughts, during the wild soliti.de of the 
night before, had been many, and almost all plea 
sant, for he had lain in a chamber within an old 
tower of the mansion, like an adventurer of the 
days of cld in the land of Fairy; but during this 
night they were all most solemn under the weight 
of mere humanity, and while his fancy slept, it 
may be said that his heart was broad awake. His 
hand had deprived that mother of her only son — 
that sweet maiden of her only brother — and might 
it not be in his power to supply to each her sepa- 
rate loss ? His own heart had hitherto conceived 
no deep affection — but had loved phantoms alone 
of its own creation. He had led a wandering, rest- 
less, and wretched life, for several years, and now, 
when the light of joy seemed to be breaking from 
a distance like the far-off and faint streak of the 
doubtful dawn, his spirit expanded within him, and 
he dared to look forward to a bright futurity. Had 
not that fatal quarrel been forced upon him by the 
impetuous character of his antagonist ? Had he 
not received from him perfect forgiveness, and 
many acknowledgments of his courage and his 
honour? None reproached him for a quarrel that 
had not been of his own seeking, and he had long 
used his skill for the defence only of his own life. 
But two accomplished swordsmen had held each 
other at the point, and the young Highland chief- 
tain had received his death-wound. This night 
was as still and breathless as the preceding night 
had been loud and stormy ; and so, in some mea- 
sure, was it with the heart of Edward Ashton. 
His thoughts, and feelings, and passions, had work- 
ed to rest — a tranquillity, to which he had too 
ong been a stranger, took possession of his mind, 
and in the morning he cast a rejoicing look over 
tlio awakened beauty and magnificence of nature. 


274 


TUE RAINBOW. 


The lady, in whose hospitable house ne slept, 
had thought all night long alternately of him and 
of her son. Ti e melancholy life he had been for 
some years leading in his solitary wanderings 
touched her heart with the profoundest pity, and 
she wondered if his parents were dead, or if he 
had a father or a mother who suffered him thus to 
cherish Ins unwitnessed and unparticipated grief. 
Many a one who had been involved in the same 
fatality easily and soon forgot it, and led the same 
cheerful or careless life as before, without blame 
from others, 'or remorse of their own consciences ; 
but his whole youth was tinged with sadness, and 
the solemnity of age was affectingly blended with 
the natural candour of his prime. How was it 
possible to refuse affection to such a man 1 And 
her last thought, before sinking into the world of 
dreams, was that her son had expired with a cold 
hand clasped in his, and with his head on a pillow 
which his care had smoothed. 

As for Mary Stuart, when she “ lay down in 
herloveliness,” she tried to banish from her closed 
eyes the image of the stranger. Yet why should 
she not think of him 1 .What was he — or could 
he be to her, but one who, when far away, would re- 
member her in sorrow, as the sister of the man 
whose death lay heavy on his soul ? Slie felt the 
tears on her check, and wiped them away in the 
silent darkness; once more she prayed that God 
would send peace to his heart ; and when the 
touch of the morning light awakened her from 
disturbed sleep, to him her earliest thought ur.con- 
sciously turned, and he was not forgotten in her 
prisons. 

The rich and cheerful beauty of the early au 
tumn covered all the glen — and it was not eas^ 
for the wanderer to leave the heaven that to him 


THE RAINBOW. 


275 


ay both within and without the house. Sometime, 
be ascended by himself to the mountain-tops, and 
waited till the wreathed mist rose up in the early 
sunlight, and revealed far below the motionless si- 
lence of the wooded glen. He sat alone by the 
mountain-cataracts, and traversed the heathery 
shores of the great wide inland lochs, or the rocky 
margin of arms of the sea. Valleys that stretched 
oft' into the dim and distant day, shortened beneath 
his feet ; and he enjoyed the stern silence of the 
black pine forest, darkening for leagues the base 
of some mighty mountain. The belling of the red 
deer came to him in the desert, as the echo of his 
footsteps roused up their antlered heads ; and he 
strained his eyes to catch a sight of the eagle 
whose wild shriek he heard in the blue hollow of 
the sky. These were his day’s wild penance in 
the uncompanioned solitude of nature. But hours 
of a sweet and human happiness were now often 
his ; for he walked with fair Mary Stuart alone, 
or with her mother, through coverts by the stream- 
let’s banks, along green meadow-fields ; glades 
where the young fawn might be seen at play ; and 
into cottages where many a blithe and weather- 
beaten face welcomed the visits of them whose, 
visits were ever of kindness, charity, or love. 

Thus day after day passed along, and still Ed- 
ward Ashton was in Glen-Creran. He had nar- 
rated all the circumstances of her son’s death to 
the mother, and she felt, too truly, that her wild 
and headstrong Charles had sought his doom ! But 
not the less on that account did her maternal heart 
weep blessings on her dead son, while it yearned 
with indescril)able emotions tenderness and pity 
towards him who did justice to all his virtues, and 
who was willing to let all blame rest on his own 
head, rather than that any of it should alight on 


276 


THE RAINBOW. 


him who was in his grave. “ O, sir, — if my deal 
Charles and you had met as friends, well would 
you have loved one another ! Had he been alive 
now ; and you had come here an unconnected 
stranger, you would have crossed the moors and 
mountains together after the roe or the red deer. 
But his life has passed away, even as that shadow 
that is now passing over into Glenco — See, it is 
gone !” 

They were sitting alone in the woods — no living 
thing near them but the squirrel leaping from tree 
to tree, — no sound but that of the cushat mixing 
with the murmur of the waterfall. Edward Ash- 
ton looked steadfastly in her face, and said, “ Why 
am I lingering here 1 — need I say it"? Your daugh- 
ter Mary I do most tenderly love ; if 1 can gain 
her affection, could you bear to look on me as 
your son-in-law? If not, I will leave Glen-Creran 
to-night.” He spoke with great emotion, although 
suppressed; for to be pitied, and even esteemed, 
was still far different indeed from being received 
as a son into the bosom of a family whose dearest 
peace he had been the means of breaking. He 
waited in terror for the first words of the reply, 
and they at once raised up his soul into a heaven 
of joy. “ If I saw you married to my Mary, then 
could I lay down my head and die in peace. I 
feel as if God had sent you here to be our com- 
forter.” His soul was satisfied, and he gave a 
history of himself and his family — telling how he 
had clianged his name for that of a kinsman, to 
whose estate he had succeeded. “ England is the 
country where I ought to live; but if your ?weet 
daughter can be won, every year will we visit 
Glen-Creran. But, alas ! all my hopes are but a 
dream. She never can be made to love me !’ 
The lady looked up jn him with a pleasant coun 


THE RAINHOW. 


277 


tenance, and ai encouraging snii.e. “ My daugh- 
ter!s heart is free — and it is impossible hut that 
she must soon love you.” They rose up and re 
turned in silence to the house. 

That evening Edward Ashton and Mary Stuart 
walked up the wild and lonely Glenure, and bo 
fore they reached home, there was a clear moon 
to light them through the fragrant birch-woods. 
Her heart was given up entirely, with all its calm, 
pure, and' innocent thoughts and feelings, to him 
who was now her lover ; it knew no disguise, nor 
had it one single emotion to veil or conceal. No 
passion agitated sweet Mary Stuart, no wild 
dreams of imagination, no enthusiastic transports 
of the fancy ; but his smile was light, and his voice 
was music to her soul ; and in the serene depth «f 
an affection which had been growing within her 
heart, even from the very first moment she beheld 
the stranger in the Pine grove, would she now 
have willingly gone with him to the uttermost pails 
of the earth, or laid down her young and happy 
life for his sake. When he folded her to his heart, 
as they mutually pledged their faith, her tears fell 
down in showers, and the kisses that then touched 
her eyes and cheek thrilled with unutterable hajipi- 
ness through her innocent and virgin heart. But 
dear to her as he then was, she felt, when about 
to part from him a few days afterwards, that he 
was then far dearer; she then thought of being his 
wife in a vision of delight, for she was now deeply 
in love; and her soul sickened as the shadow fell 
on the sun-dial in the garden, that told the hour 
was come, in which he must take his departure, 
for some months, from Glen-Creran. 

Mary Stuart, except the year she had lived 
abroad with her mother after her brother’s death, 
Lad led a solitary life in the Highlands. Her heart 


THE KAINBOW. 


m 

had slept in peaceful dreams, and had been undis- 
turbed as that of a child. But now it Avas over- 
flowing with a pure passion, and her eyes belield 
no longer the shadows and mists of her native 
mountains, her ears heard no longer the murmurs 
of her native stream. Edward Ashton was now 
to her all in all — and her former life, happy as she 
had thought it, seemed now a vapid and empt) 
dream. 

The sun was high in heaven, and Avith his fuh 
radiance smote the distant clouds that Avere dis- 
solving into a gentle shoAver, over the Avoody ter- 
mination of the glen. “ What a beautiful rain- 
boAV !” said Mary Stuart, Avith the tears in her eyes 
— as her lover kissed them oft', about to say fare- 
well. “ A rainboAv brought me here, and as I am 
going aAvay, lo ! i^gain shines in all its beauty the 
fair Arch of Promise!” These Avere his last Avords 
at parting, and they Avere remembered by Mary 
Stuart, and often repeated by her, as she Avandered 
through the solitary Avoods, thinking on her be- 
trothed EdAvard. The hours, though they seemed 
to linger cruelly, at last had chased one another 
doAvn the channel of time, like the Avaters of a 
changeful rivulet ; and the morning of Mary 
Stuart’s Avedding-day shone over Glen-Creran. A 
happy day it Avas all among the mountains of Ap- 
pin, and also over the beautiful vale of Lorton in 
England, Avhere betAveen their Christmas carols, 
many a cup AA'ent round among the tenantry, to 
the joung Squire and his Scottish Bride. 


THE OMEN. 


379 


THE OMEN. 

There was a cheerful and noisy evening party 
even in the parlour of Crofthead, the huinl)le resi- 
dence of a Scottish Laird, who inherited a small 
estate from a long line of obscure ancestors. The 
family consisted of himself, wife, and only daugh- 
tei, and about half a dozen servants belonging to 
the house, the dairy, and the farm. A good man^ 
neighbours had now been gathered together at i 
tea-drinking; and the table, on this occasion, ex- 
hibited various other liquors, in tall green bottles, 
and creaked on its old legs under the weight of a 
world of viands. Not a few pretty girls and good- 
looking young men were judiciously distributed 
round the board ; and from the frequent titterings, 
and occasional hearty bursts of laughter, it could 
not be doubted that much delicate wit and no little 
broad humour, was sported during the festive hour. 
The young ladies from the Manse were in excel- 
lent spirits, and the comely daughters of Mr. 
M‘Fayden, a retired Glasgow manufacturer, lent 
themselves both to the jammed cookies and to the 
jocularity of the evening with even more than 
usual animation. But though she was somewhat 
more silent than her wont, and had even a slight 
shade of sadness on her face, not quite conge- 
nial with the scene of merriment, not one of them 
all looked so well as the daughter of the good old 
people ; and her simply braided auburn hair, with 
no other ornament than a pink riband, had an ap- 
pearance that might well be called elegant, when 
gently moving along the richly adorned love-locks 
and ringlets that waved so seducingly round the 
brows and cheeks of the other mure ambitious and 


S80 


THE OMEN 


anmerciful young ladies. There was not cne ic 
tlie whole parish, high or low, ricJi or poor, that 
could for a moment be compared with “ sweet Jane 
Nasmyth this was so universally allowed, that 
she had even no rivals ; and indeed, had her beau- 
ty excited the envy of her companions, her unpre- 
tending manners, and the simplicity of her whole 
character, would have extinguished that feeling, 
and converted it into willing admiration and affec- 
tionate regard. “ Sweet Jane Nasmyth” she was 
always called ; and that expression, although at 
first hearing it may not seem to denote much, was, 
indeed, just the one she deserved, in her loveliness 
that courted not the eyes which it won, and in her 
goodness which flowed on uninterruptedly in its 
own calm and unconscious course of home-born 
happiness. 

It was now a beautiful moonlight night, and 
Jane Nasmyth contrived to leave the merry party, 
whether unobserved or not is uncertain, and glide 
away through the budding lilacs into a small ar- 
bour in the garden. It could not be supposed that 
she went there to sit alone and read the stars ; a 
friend joined her in the bower, and she allowed 
herself to be taken into his bosom. For two years 
had she been tenderly and truly beloved by Arthur 
Crawfurd, a young man of an ancient but decayed 
family, and now a lieutenant in the navy. He 
was to join his ship next day — and as the frigate 
o which he belonged had a fighting character, jnmr 
Jane, although it was not the first time she had 
parted from liim, was now, more than she had ever 
been, depressed and disturbed. The din of mer- 
rimen came from the bright uncurtained windows 
of the cottage-parlour to the lovers in their arbour, 
and the sailor gaily said, “How could you leave 
BO joyful a party to come and weep here ]” Iii a 


THE OMEN. 


281 


few minutes Jane Nasmyth dried her tears; foi 
she was not one who gave way needlessly to de- 
sponding thoughts; and the manly tenderness and 
respectful affection of her lover restored her heart 
almost to its usual serenity, so that they were both 
again quite cheerful and happy. He had often 
sailed away, and often returned ; he had been 
spared both in battle and in shipwreck ; and while 
tliat remembrance comforted her heart, it need not 
be said that it likewise sent through all its strings 
a vibration of more thrilling and profounder love. 

It was a mild night in spring, and the leaves 
yet upfolded might almost be heard budding in the 
bower, as the dews descended upon them with ge- 
nial influence. A slight twittering of the birds in 
their new-built nests was audible, as if the happy 
creatures were lying awake in the bright breathless 
night ; and here and there a moth, that enjoys the 
darkened light, went by on its noiseless wings. A1 
was serenity and peace below, and not a stain was 
roujid the moon — no dimness over the stars. “We 
shall have fair weather for a fortnight at least, Jane, 
for there is no halo yonder;” and as she looked 
up at these words, her head continued to rest upon 
her sailor’s bosom. To think on waves and storms 
at such a moment was natural, but to fear them 
was impossible; her soul was strong in the undis- 
turbed quiet of nature, and all her accustomed 
feelings of trust in Providence now gathered upon 
it, and she knew her sailor would return well and 
happy to her arms — and that she would then be- 
come his wife. 

“ I will cut two little branches off this rose-tree, 
and plant them side by side on yonder bank that 
first catches the morning light. Look at them, now 
and then, when I am away, and let them be even, 
BS ourselves, united wher 5 they grow.” The cui- 


282 


THE OMEK. 


tings from the rose-busi were accordingly placed 
in the ground. Nor did these lovers think, that in 
this half playful, half serious mood, there was any 
thing foolish in persons at their time of life. To 
be sure they were rather too old for such trilling; 
for Arthur was twenty-two years of age, and .lane 
wanted but a few months of nineteen. But we ail 
become wiser as we get old ; and perhaps the time 
came when these rose-plants were sii tiered to blos- 
som unheeded, and to cover the ground about 
them with a snow-shower of fragrance, enjoyed 
only by the working bees. At present they were 
put into the mould as carefully as if on their lives 
iiad depended the lives of those who planted them ; 
and Jane watered them, unnecessarily, in a vernal 
night of dew, with a shower of tears. “ If they 
grow — bud — and blossom, that will be a good 
OMEN — if not, I must not allow myself to have any 
foolish fears ! ” 

The parting kiss was given, and the last mutual 
benedictions, and then Arthur Crawfurd, clearing 
his voice, said, “ I hear the fun and frolic is not 
yet over, nor likely to be soon. Why don’t you ask 
me to join the party?” It was well known that 
they were betrothed, and that their marriage was 
to take place on his return from this cruise, so, with 
a blush, Jane introduced him into the parlour. “ 1 
presume, lieutenant,” said one, “you have conic 
here in a balloon.” “ Well, Jane,” said another, 
“ I declare that I never missed you out of the room 
-—were you giving orders about supper — or have 
you been in the garden to see if the cresses are lit 
to be cut?” The sailor was, during this time, 
shaking the old man by the hand so firmly, that 
the water stood in his eyes, and he exclaimed, 
“Why, Arthur, your fist is like a vice. It wouiJ 
notdo for you tc shake hands with any of the young 


THE OMEN. 


283 


lasses there — you would make the blood tingle in 
their fingers. Sit down, my dear son, and while 
the younkers are busy among themselves, let us 
hear what the French and Spaniards are about, 
and if it be true that Lord Nelson is going to give 
them a settling again.” So passed the evening 
by ; — charades and songs lent their aid, and after 
a breaking up of the party, which lasted about half 
an hour in finding and fitting on straw bonnets, 
shawls and shoes, the laughter and voices of one 
and all, as they receded from the cottage up the 
nill, or down the vale, died away, and Croftliead 
was buried in silence and in sleep. 

Days and weeks passed on, while .Tane Nasmyth 
sat in her cottage, or walked about the adjacent 
fields, and her lover was sailing far and wide upon 
the seas. There were many rumours of an ex- 
pected engagement, and her heart Huttered at the 
sight of every stranger. But her lover’s letters 
came, if not regularly, yet in pleasant numbers, 
and their glad and cheerful tone infused confi- 
dence into her heart. When he was last away, 
they were lovers; but now their marriage was fixed, 
and his letters now were written as to his bride, 
overflowing with gratitude and delighted aftection. 
When she was reading them, he seemed to be talk- 
ing before her — the great distance of land and sea 
between them vanished — and as he spoke of his 
ship, of which he was so proud, she almost ex- 
pected, on lifting up her eyes, to see its masts 
towering up before her, with all their glorious flags 
and ensigns. But they were streaming to the wind 
above the foam of the ocean, and her eyes saw 
only the green sh'aJe of the sheltering sjeamore, — 
her ears heard c ‘y the deep murmur ot the work- 
ing beec as if . nole hive had been in that teoi* 
like tr- 


284 


THE OMEX 


Nor did Jane Nusniyth forget to visit, manj 
times every day, the two roses which her lover had 
planted, and to which he had told her to look as 
an OMEN of his state when far at sea. To the bank 
on which they grew she paid her earliest visit, along 
with the beams of the morning sun ; and there, too, 
she marked the first diamonds of the evening dew. 
They grew to her heart’s desire ; and now that 
the year was advanced, they showed a few flower 
buds, and seemed about tp break out into roses, 
slender as were their bending stems. That one 
which bore her lover’s name hung over her own, 
as if sheltering it with its flexile arch, and wheii 
weighed down by the rain-drops, or by tlie breeze, 
it touched gently the leaves of its companion, and 
seemed to intertwine with it in a balmy embrace. 
The heart can accumulate love and delight upon 
any object whatever; but these plants were in 
themselves beautiful, and every leaf swarmed, not 
with poetic visions, but with thoughts of such deep 
human tenderness, that they were seldom looked 
at without a gush of tears. They were perfectly 
unlike all the other shrubs and flowers in rlmt gar- 
den; and had they been dug up, it would have 
been felt as a sacrilege ; had they withered, the 
OMEN would have struck through her very life. 
But they did not wither ; and nothing touched 
them but the bee or the butterfly, or haply for a 
moment the green linnet, the chatfinch, or the red- 
cap, half balanced on the bending spray, and half 
supported by his fluttering wings. 

Crofthead was a cottage in a sheltered vale — 
but it was not far inland, and by ascending a green 
hill behind it, Jane Nasmyth could, on clear days, 
get a glimpse of the blue ocean. The sight even 
of the element on which her lover now dwelt was 
delightful to her eyes, and if a white sail shone 


THE OMEN. 


285 


forth through the sunlight, her heart felt a touch of 
de.ar emotion. Sometimes, too, when walking in 
the vale, she would gaze with love on the beauti- 
ful white sea-mew that came floating on the sea- 
born air into the fields of the quiet earth. As the 
cr«!ature alighted on the green turf, and, folding 
its wings, sat there motionless, or walked as if 
pleased with the soft pressure of the grass beneath 
its feet, she viewed it as a silent messenger from 
the sea, that perhaps might have flown round her 
lover’s ship. Its soft plumes bore no marks of the 
dashing waves ; its eyes, although wild, were gen- 
tle ; its movement was calm as if it had never 
(irifted with the rapid tide, or been driven through 
the howling tempest ; and as it again rose up 
from the herbage and the wild flowers, and hovering 
over her head for a little while, winged its w^ay 
down the vale over the peaceful woods, she sent 
her whole soul wdth it to the ocean, and heav'ed a 
deep sigh unconsciously as it disappeared. 

The summer was now over, and the autumn at 
hand. The hay-fields were once more green with 
springing herbage — and bands of reapers were 
w'aiting for a few sunny days, till they might be 
let loose in joyful labour upon the ripened grain. 
Was the Amethyst frigate never to finish her 
cruise ? September surely would not pass away 
w'ithout seeing her in harbour, and Arthur Craw- 
furd at Crofthead. Poor Jane was beginning to 
pine now for her lover’s return; and one afternoon, 
on visiting, almost unhappy, the rose-trees, she 
thought that they both were drooping. She forgot 
that September mornings have often their frost in 
Scotland ; and on seeing a few withered leaves 
near the now w'asted blossoms, she remembered 
Arthur’s words about the omen, and turned away 
from the bank with a shudder of foolish fear. But 


286 


THE OMEN. 


a trifle will agitate a wiser and older heart than 
that of Jane Nasmyth, and reason neither awakens 
nor lulls to sleep the passions of human beings, 
which obey, in the darkness of their mystery, 
many unknown and incomprehensible laws. — 
^ What if he be dead !” thought she, with a sick 
pang tugging at her heart — and she hastened out 
of the garden, as if a beast of prey had been seen 
by her,or an adderlying couched amongthe bushes. 

She entered the house in a sort of panic, of 
which she was ashamed as soon as she saw the 
cheerful and happy faces of her patents, who were 
sitting together listening, according to their usual 
custom, to an old spectacled neighbour busy at a 
newspaper, the Edinburgh Evening Courant, a 
copy of which made visits to about a dozen of the 
most respectable families in the parish. The old 
worthy was Emeritus Schoolmaster, and was just- 
ly proud of his elocution, which was distinct and 
precise, each syllable being made to stand well 
out by itself, while, it was generally admitted, that 
Mr. Peacock had a good deal of the English ac- 
cent, which he had acquired about forty years ago 
at Inverness. He did not think it worth while to 
stop very long at the end of a paragraph, or article, 
but went on in a good business-like style, right 
through politics, stocks, extraordinary accidents 
state of the weather, births, deaths, and marriages, 
a j)leasing and instructive medley. Just as Jane 
had taken her seat, the good old proser had got to 
the ship-news, and he announced, without being in 
the least aware of what he was about, “ Founoeiied 

IN THE LATE TREMENDOUS GALE, OFF THE LiZARD, 

HIS Majesty’s Frigate Amethyst. All the 

CREW PERISHED !” 

After the first shock of horror, the old people 
rose from their seats, and tried to lift up theii 


THE OMEN. 


287 


daughter, who liacl fallen down, as if stone-dead, 
with great violence on the floor. The school 
master, petrified and rooted to his chair, struck 
his forehead in agony, and could only ejaculate, 
“ God forgive me — God forgive me!”’ After nianj 
long-drawn sighs, and many alarming relapses 
into that deadly swoon, Jane opened her eyes , 
and, looking round with a ghastly wildness, saw 
the newspaper lying on the floor, where it had 
dropped from the old man’s trembiing hands. 
Crawling with a livid face towards the object of 
her horror, she clutched it convulsively with her 
feeble fingers, and with glazed eyes instinctively 
seizing on the spot, she read, as if to herself, the 
dreadful words over and over again — and then, as 
if her intellect was affected, kept repeating a few 
of them. “Foundered” — “Tremendous gale” 
— “ Every soul perished.” — “ Oh ! great and dread 
ful God — my Arthur is drowned at last.” 

Some of the kind domestics now came into the 
room, and with their care, for her parents were 
nearly helpless, the poor girl was restored to her 
senses. She alone wept not — for her heart was 
hardened, and she felt a band of cold iron drawn 
tight around her bosom. There was weeping and 
sobbing, loud and unrestrained with all others, foi 
Arthur Crawfurd, the beautiful and brave, was be- 
loved by every one in the parish, from the child of 
six years old to people of fourscore. Several young 
men, too, belonging to the parish, had served oji 
board that ship ; and they were not now forgotten, 
although it was for the young lieutenant, more 
than for them of their own rank, that now all the 
servants wept. 

Jane Nasmyth was a maiden of a perfectly jiiou* 
mind ; but no piety can prevent nature from shriek- 
ing aloud at the first blow of a great calamity. 


ass 


THE OMEN. 


She wished herself dead — and that wish she ex 
pressed as soon as she foinid her voice. Her olh 
father knelt down on the floor at one side of his 
child, and her old mother at another, while tl)e lat- 
t(,“r had just strength to say, “ Our Father vvhicli 
art in Heaven — hallowed be thy name — thy king- 
dom come — thy will be done on earth as it is in Hea- 
ren.” The poor girl shut her eyes with a groan ; 
autshe could not repeat a single one of these words 
Then was the floor, indeed, drenched with tears. 
They fell down in big drops — in plasliing showers 
from old eyes that had not seemed before to con- 
tain so much moisture. And in that mortal silence 
no sound was now heard, but one low quivering 
voice, saying at intervals, “ All the crew perishetl 
— all the crew perished. Wo is me — wo is me — 
Arthur is drowned at last !” 

They lifted her from the floor — and to her own 
wonder, she fell not down, but could stand unsup- 
ported on her feet. “ Take me up stairs to my 
bed, mother — let me lie down there — and perhaps 
I may be better. I said that 1 wished to die. Oli ! 
these were wicked words. May 1 live to do my 
duty to my dear parents in their old age. But, oh ! 
this sickness is mortal — mortal indeed ; but lei 
me put my trust in .God and my Redeemer, and 
j)ray to them — my parents — to forgive my impious 
words !” 

They supported her steps — and she asked to 
go to the window just to take one look out into 
the calm and beautiful afternoon — for not a breath 
was stirring, and the western sun diffused over the 
scene a bright but softened repose. “Oh ! merci- 
ful God — there is Arthur’s ghost — I saw it pass bv 
— it waved its hand — bright and smiling w'ere its 
eyes — take me away — take me away, for I feel 
tliat visions beset my brair !” They half lifted 


THE OMEN. 


380 


fccr in their arms towards the door ; while ehe 
continued to say faintly, “It smiled — yes, it smiled 
— but Arthur’s body is mangled, and bruised, and 
crushed by timber, and stones, and rocks ; lying 
on the sand somewhere, while I was singing or 
laughing in my miserable delusion ; his face gnaw- 
ed by sea-monsters,” — and then her voice was 
choked, and slie could speak no more. 

The door burst open ; and there entered no 
ghost, but the bold, glad, joyful, living sailor him- 
self, who clasped Jane to his bosom. So sudden 
was his entrance, that he had not time to observe 
the dismay and grief that had been trampling on 
all now beside him ; nor did he, during tliat bles> 
embrace, feel that his betrothed maiden was insen 
sible to his endearments. Joy had t.aken possession 
of all his being — all his perceptions ; and he sau 
nothing, felt nothing, but his Jane and her boson 
prest closely to his own. “Have I broken in upon 
a dish of gossip ? Well, no rival in the room ; so 
far good. What, all silent — pale faces — tears — 
what is the matter 1 Is this a welcome I” But 
so many death-like or agitated countenances soon 
told him that some strong passion pervaded the 
party, and he began to have his own undefined 
fears ; for he bad not yet visited his own father’s 
house. All was soon explained ; and Jane having 
been revived into tolerable composure, the servants 
retired, but not before shaking hands one and all 
with the lieutenant ; and the old schoolmaster, 
too, who felt himself to blame, although sent for 
on purpose to read aloud the news, and certainly 
not answerable for erroneous nautical intelligence, 
feeling rather uneasy in the room, promised to call 
next evening, took up liis old-fashioned chapeau, 
and niakirg a bow wortiiy of a distinguished neda- 


290 


THE CMEN. 


gogne, made the best of his way Dut and beyond ' 
the premises. 

Arthur Crawfurd coming in upon them in the 
transport of his joy, could not easily bring home 
to his heart a perfect understanding of the scene 
that had just preceded his arrival. He never per- 
haps knew the full terror that had nearly deprived - 
his sweet Jane of life ; but he knew enough to lay 
an eternal obligation of tenderness towards her 
upon his inmost soul. “ Instead of foundering, 
the Amethyst is in as good trim as any frigate in 
the fleet ; but she had to scud for some leagues 
under bare poles ; for the squall came down upon 
us like a sheet of iron. A large ship, name un- 
known, went down near our stern.” — “And all 
on board perished !” exclaimed Jane in a dewy 
voice of pity. “ They did indeed !” “Oh! many 
eyes now are weeping, or doomed to weep, for 
that ship, while mine are dried. Her name will 
be known soon enough !” And as she looked on 
her lover, once more did the maiden give way to 
the strong imagination of the doom which she felt 
he had narrowly escaped. “ Come, cheer up, 
Jane ; my life is in God’s hand ; and with him it 
rests whether I die on my bed in the cottage at 
last, or, like many a better man, in battle or wreck. 
But you are willing to marry a sailor — for better 
or worse — a longer or shorter date — and no doubt 
I shall be as happy as any of my messmates. Not 
one of them all has such a sweetheart as thou art 
— a dutiful daughter makes a loving wife.” 

After an hour’s talk and silence; during which 
Jane Nasmyth had scarcely recovereo from a 
slight hysteric, her father proposed returning 
thanks to God for Arthur’s return. The sailor 
vat a man of gay and joyous character, but in r©- 


THE OMEN. 


291 


.igion he was not only a firm but inipassioned be- 
liever. He had not allowed the temptations of a 
life, which with too many is often wild and dis- 
sipated, to shake his faith in Chnstianity ; the 
many hardships and dangers which he had en- 
countered and escaped, had served to deepen all 
his religious impressions ; so that a weak person 
would have called him methodistical or supersti 
tious. He was neither ; but he had heard God in 
the great deep, and he did not forget the voice in 
the silence of the green and steadfast earth. So 
he knelt down to prayer with an humble and grate- 
ful spirit, and as he felt his own Jane breathing by 
his side, on her knees, and knew that she was 
at the same time weeping for joy at his return, 
neither was he ashamed also to weep ; for there 
are times, and this was one of them, when a brave 
man need not seek to hide his tears either before 
his fellow creatures or his Creator- 

After they had risen from their fervent prayer 
and a short silent pause had ensued, “ How,” said 
the sailor, “ are our two rose bushes ? Did they 
hang their heads, do you thiidi, because false ru- 
mour sank the good sliip Amethyst? Come Jane, 
let us go and see.” And as some hundreds of 
swallows were twittering on the house-top in the 
evening sunshine collected there with a view either 
of flying across seas to some distant countiy, or 
of plunging down to the bottom of some loch near 
at hand, (probably the former,) the lovers walked 
out into the open air — unlatched the little white 
gate canopied with an arch of honey-suckle, that 
guarded a garden into which there were no in 
traders, and arm in arm proceeded to the “ Bank 
of the Two Roses.” They had nothing now of 
that sickly and dying appearance which thev had 
showed to Jane's eyes a few hours ago ; no evij 


292 


CONSUMPTION. 


OMEN was there now ; but they seemed likely to 
live for many years, and every season to put forth 
their flowers in greater number and in richer beauty 


CONSUMPTION. 

The moss-roses are still clustered in their unde* 
caying splendour above the porch of Calder Cot* 
tage ; the bees are murmuring in their joy round 
the hive on its green sward, rich with its wliite and 
purple clover ; the turtle doves are cooing on the 
roof, with plumage brightening in the sunshine ; 
while over all is shed a dim and tender shadow 
from the embowering sycamore, beneath whose 
shelter was built many years ago, the little humble 
edifice. In its low simplicity it might be the dwell- 
ing of the poor ; but the heart feels something in 
its quiet loveliness that breathes of the spirit of cul- 
tivated life. A finer character of beauty pervades 
the still seclusion, than the hand of labour ever 
shed over its dwelling in the gratitude of its Sab- 
bath hours ; all around seems ministering to the 
joy, and not to the necessities of existence, and as 
the eye dwells on the gorgeous ornaments which 
sun, and air, and dew have showered in pro- 
fusion over the blooming walls, the mitid cannot 
bu*^ think of some delicate and gentle spirit re- 
tired from the world it had adorned, and enjoying 
in the twilight of life the sweetness and serenity 
of Nature. 

Such were its inmates a few short months ago 
The sound of music was heard far down the ro 
mantic banks of the Calder, when, in the sileucn 


CONSUMP noN. 


399 


of evening, the harp was touched witliin these 
humble walls, or there arose a mingled voice as 
of spirits hymning through the woods. But the 
strings of the harp are now silent, and the young 
lips that sung those heavenly anthems are covered 
with the dust. 

The lady who lived there in her widowhood was 
sprung of gentle blood ; and none who had but 
for a moment looked on her pale countenance, 
and her figure majestic even under the burden of 
pain, could ever again forget that image, at once 
so solemn and so beautiful. Although no deep 
lines disturbed tiie meek expression of that fading 
face, and something that almost seemed a smile 
still shone over her placid features, yet had that 
lady undergone in her day hardships, and troubles, 
and calamities that might have broken the heart, 
and laid low the head of manhood in its sternest 
pride. She had been with her husband in famine, 
battle, and shipwreck- When his mortal wound 
came, she sat by his bed-side — her hand closed his 
eyes and wrought his shroud — and she was able 
to gaze with a steadfast eye on all the troops march- 
ing with reversed arms, and with slow step, to 
melancholy music, when the whole army was 
drawn up at-his funeral on the field of battle. Per- 
haps, then, she willed to die. But two children 
were at her knees, and another at her bosom; and 
on her return to her native country, she found 
heart to walk through the very scenes where she 
had been most blessed, before these infants were 
born, and to live in the very dwelling to which he 
who was now buried had brought her a young and 
happy bride. 

Such had been his last request — and seventeen 
years of resignation and peace had now passed 

over the head of the widow — whose soul was with 
ar0 


204 


CONSUMPTION. 


her luisbaiid at morning and at evening prayers, 
during hours of the day when there were many 
present— -and during hours of ilie night when there 
were none hut tlie eye of God to witness her un- 
complaining melancholy. Her grief was calm, 
but it was constant — it repined not, but it wasted 
away — and though all called her happy, all knew 
that her life was frail, and that one so sad and sor- 
rowful even in her happiness was not destined by 
(iod for old age. Yet for her none felt pity — a 
Idgher feeling arose in every heart from the resig- 
r.ation so perfectly expressed in every motion, 
look, and tone — and beautiful as she was on earth, 
there came across the souls of all who beheld her, 
ti thought of one yet more beautiful in heaven. 

Her three daughters, although their health had 
idways been delicate, were well, cheerful, and 
nappy; hut some said, that whenever they were 
met walking alone, a solemn, if not a mournful 
expression was on their countenances; and whe- 
ther it was so or not, they certainly shunned so- 
ciety rather than sought it, and seldom partook of 
the innocent amusement natural to youth, and to 
which youth lends so much grace and attraction. 
No one ever saw any of them unamiahle, or averse 
from the gladness of others ; hut a shade of sad- 
ness was now perceptible overall their demeanour, 
and they seemed bound together by some tie even 
more strict than that of sisterly affection. The 
truth was, that they felt God had given them but 
a short life, and that Avhen the bier of one was car- 
ried into the church-yard, that of the other would 
not be long of following it to the place of rest. 

Their mother died first, and her death had been 
long foreseen by them ; for they, who spoke to 
gether of their own deaths, were not likely to de- 
wiro themselves with respect to that of one so deal 


CONSUMPTION. 


295 


»o them all. She was ready and Milling tv> diej 
but tears were on her cheek only a few hours be- 
fore her decease, for the sake of her three daugh 
ters, left to themselves, and to droop away, as she 
well knew, one after the other, in that fatal disease 
which they inherited from their father. Her ieath 
was peaceful — almost happy — but, resigned as she 
was, it could not but be afflicting to her parting 
spirit to see those three beautiful spectres gliding 
round her bedside, with countenances and persons 
that plainly told they were fast hastening on to the 
tomb. 

The funeral of the mother was conducted as it 
deserved to be — for humble as she was in heart, 
yet she had been highly born ; and many attended 
her body to the grave who had almost forgotten her 
when alive in her simple retirement. But these 
were worldly mourners, who laid aside their sor- 
row with their suits of sable — many who had no 
right to walk near her coffin, felt they had a right 
to weep over her grave, and for many Sabbaths 
after her burial, groups collected beside the mound, 
and while many of them could not but weep, none 
left it without a sigh and a blessing. When her 
three daughters, after tlie intermission of a few 
Sabbaths, were again seen walking, arm in arm, 
into the church, and taking their seats in their own 
pew, the whole congregation may be said to have 
regarded the orphans with a compassion, which 
was lieiglitened into an emotion at oi ce overcom- 
ing and consoling, when it was visible to all who 
looked upon them, that ere long they would be 
ving side by side near their mother’s grave. 

After her death the three orphans were seldomer 
seen than before ; and pale as their sweet faces 
had seemed when they used to dress in white, they 
seemed even paler now contrasted with tl^ar block 


296 


CONSUMPTION. 


mourning garments. They received the visits of 
their few dear friends with warmest gratitude, and 
those of ordinary condolement, with a placid con- 
tent ; they did not appear wearied of tliis world 
but resigned to leave it ; smiles and the pressure 
of alFectionate hands were still dear to them; and 
If they kept themselves apart from society, it was 
not because they could not sympathize with its 
hilarity, its amusements, and its mirth, but because 
they were warned by feelings close upon their 
brain and heart, that they were doomed soon to lay 
their heads down into the dust. Some visiters, on 
first entering their parlour, in which every thing 
was still as elegantly and gracefully arranged as 
ever, wondered why the fair sisters should so sel- 
dom be seen out of their own dwelling; but no 
one, even the most thoughtless and unfeeling, ever 
left them without far different thoughts, or without 
a sorrowful conviction that they were passing, in 
perfect resignation, the remainder of their life, 
which, in their own hearts they knew to be small. 
So, week after week, visits of idle ceremony were 
discontinued ; and none now came to Calder Cot- 
tage except those who had been dear to their dead 
mother, and were dear, even for that reason, had 
there been no other, to the dying orphans. 

They sat in their beauty within the shadow of 
death. But happiness was not, therefore, excluded 
from Calder Cottage. It was a sublime satisfac- 
tion to know that God was to call them away from 
their mortal being unsevered ; and that while they 
all three knelt in prayer, it was not for the sake of 
one only who was to leave the survivors in tears, 
but for themselves that they were mutually beseech- 
ing God, that he would be pleased to smooth tlie 
path by which they were walking hand in hand 
to the grave. When the sun shone, they still cott- 


CONSUMPTION. 


291 


tinued to wander along the shaded banks of iheir 
beloved Calder, and admire its quiet junction with 
he wide-flowing Clyde. They did not neglect their 
flower-garden, although they well knew that their 
eyes were not to be gladdened by the blossoms of 
another spring. They strewed, as before, crumbs 
for the small birds that had built their nests among 
the roses and honeysuckles on the wall of their 
cottage. They kept the weeds from overgrowing 
the walks that were soon to be trodden by their 
feet no more ; and they did not turn their eyes 
away from the shooting flowers which they knew 
took another spring to bring them to maturity, 
and would be disclosing their fragrant beauty in 
the sunshine that shone on their own graves. Nor 
did their higher cares lose any of the interest or 
the charm which they had possessed during their 
years of health and hope. The old people whom 
their charity supported were received with as kind 
smiles as ever, when they came to receive their 
weekly dole. The children whom they had cloth- 
ed and sent to school, met with the same sweet 
voices as before, when on the Saturday evenings 
they visited the ladies of Calder Cottage ; and the 
innocent mirth of all about the house, the garden, 
the fields, or the adjacent huts, seemed to be plea- 
sant to their ears, when stealing unexpectedly upon 
them from happy persons engrossed with their 
own joys, and unaware that the sound of their 
pastimes had reached those whose own earthly 
enjoyments were so near a close. 

These were the last lingering shadows and 
sounds and odours of life ; and the time had 
yet come upon either of these orphans when they 
could not be enjoyed. But they had other com- 
forts; and if it had been ever most delightful to 
them to read and study the w'ord of God, wheo 


298 


CONSUMPTION. 


they let full upon the holy page eyes bright with 
the dewy light of health }et undecaying, it was 
now more tlian delightful — it was blessed — to pe- 
ruse it now together, when they had to give the 
Bible by turns into each other’s hands, that theif 
eyesight might not get dim, nor their voice falter, 
ohich would have been, had the same dying Chris- 
tian read aloud one chapter to the end. When 
the old minister visited them, he found them always 
clieerful and composed — during his stay they were 
even joyful in their resignation ; and at parting*, 
if tears were ever shed, it was by the aged for the 
young, who wept not for themselves, except when 
they thoufflit how that beniifn old man had stood 
by tluur mother’s death-bed, and when she had lost 
her utterance, let her spirit ascend upon his prayers 
to heaven. 

Caroline was the first to die. Her character, 
unlike that of both her sisters, had been distiiiiruish- 
ed by great spirit and vivacity, and when they 
were present, had always dilfused something of its 
own glad light over the serene composure of tlie 
one, and the melancholy stillness of the other, 
without seeming ever to be inconsistent with them; 
nor did her natural and irrepressible buoyancy al- 
together forsake her even to the very last. With 
her the disease assumed its most beautiful show. 
Her light blue eyes sparkled with astonishing bril- 
liancy — her cheeks, that had always hitherto been 
pale, glowed with a rose-like lustre — although she 
knew that she was dying, and strove to subdue her 
soul down to her near fate, yet in spite of herself, 
the strange fire that glowed in the embers of her 
life, kindled it often into a kind of airy gladness, 
80 that a stranger would have thought her one op 
whom opening existence was just revealing the 
treasures of its joy, and who was eager to unfold 


CONSUMPTION. 


299 


her wings, and sail on into the calm ai d sunnj 
future. Her soul, till within a few days of liei 
death, was gay in the exhilaration of disease ; and 
the very night before she died, she touched the 
harp with a playful hand, and warbled as long as 
her strength would permit, a few bars of a romantic 
tune. No one was with her when she died, for 
she Ijad risen earlier than her sisters, and was 
found by them, when they came down *o the par- 
lour, leaning back with a smiling face, on the sofa, 
with a few lilies in her hand, and never more to 
have her head lifted up in life. 

The youngest had gone first, and she was to be 
followed by Emma, the next in age. Emma, al- 
though so like her sister who was now dead, tha* 
they had always been thought by strangers to be 
twins, had a character altogether different. Her 
thoughts and feelings ran in a deeper channel ; 
nature had endowed her with extraordinary talents, 
and whatever she attempted, serious acquisition or 
light accomplishment, in that she easily excelled. 
Few, indeed, is the number of women that are 
eminently distinguished among their sex, and leave 
names to be enrolled in tlte lists of fame. Some 
accidental circumstances of life or death have fa- 
voured those few; and their sentiments, thoughts, 
feelings, fancies, and opinions, retain a permanent 
existence. But how many sink into the grave 
in all their personal beauty, and all their mental 
charms are heard of no more ! Of them no bright 
thoughts are recorded, no touching emotions, nc 
wild imaginations. All their fine and true percep- 
tions, all their instinctive knowledge of the human 
soul, and all their pure speculations on the mystery 
of human life, vanish for ever and aye Avith the 
parting breath. A fair, amiable, intelligent ycung 
maiden has died and is buried. — That is all.. And 


soo 


CONSUMPTION. 


her {'rave lies in its unvisited rest. Such an one 
was Emma Beatoun. Her motlier, he sisters, and 
a few dear friends, knew what treasures of thought 
were in her soul — what gleams of genius — and 
what light of unpretending wisdom. But she car- 
ried up her pure and high thoughts with her to 
heaven ; nor did any of them survive her on earth, 
hut a few fragments of hymns set by herself to 
plaintive music, which no voice but her own, so 
deep and yet so sweet, so mellow yet so mournful, 
could ever have so fitly sung. 

The sufferings of this sister were heavy indeed, 
and she at last prayed to be relieved. Constant 
sickness, interrupted only by fits of racking pain, 
kept the fair shadow for the last weeks of her life 
to bed, and nothing seemed to disturb her so much 
ns the incessant care of her dying sister, who seem- 
ed to forget her own approaching doom in the ten- 
derest ministrations of love. Emma’s religious 
thoughts had long been of an almost dark and awful 
character, and she was possessed by a deep sense of 
her own utter unworthiness in the sight of God. It 
was feared, that as her end drew near, and her mind 
was weakened by continual suffering, her last hours 
might be visited with visions too trying and ter- 
rible ; but the reverse was the case, and it seemed 
as if God, to reward a life of meekness, humility, 
and wisdom, removed all fear from her soul, and 
showed her the loving, rather than the awful mys- 
teries of her Redeemer. On her dead face there 
sat a smile, just as pleasant and serene as that 
which had lighted the countenance of Caroline, 
when she fell asleep f'-r ever with the lilies in her 
hand. The old nurse, who had been with them 
•ince their infanej^, alone observed that she had 
expired, for there had heei . no sigh, and the pale 


CONSUMPTION. 


30i 


emaciated fingers moved not as they lay clasped 
together across her breast. 

Louisa, the eldes , was now left alone, and al- 
though her health had always been the most deli- 
cate, there seemed, from some of the sym|)toms, a 
slight hope that she might yet recover. That fatal 
hectic flush did not stain her cheeks ; and her 
pulse, although very faint, had not the irregularity 
of alarming fever. But there are secrets known 
but to the dying themselves ; and all the encou- 
raging kindness of friends was received by her as 
sweet proofs of affection, but never once touched 
her heart with hope. The disease of which both 
her sisters had died was in the blood of her father’s 
family, and she never rose up from her bed, or her 
couch, or the gray osier-seat in the sunny garden, 
without feeling a death-like lassitude that could not 
long endure. Indeed, she yearned for the grave ; 
and hers tvas a weariness that could only find 
entire relief in the perfect stillness of that narrow 
bouse. 

Had Louisa not felt death in her bosom, there 
were circumstances that could not have failed to 
make her desire life, even after her mother and 
sisters had been taken away. For she had been 
betrothed, for a year past, to one who would have 
made her happy. He received an account of the 
alarming state of the sisters at Pisa, whither he 
had gone f'r the establishment of his own health, 
and he insta itly hurried home to Scotland. Caro- 
line and Emma were in their graves ; but he had 
the mournful satisfaction to be with his own Louisa 
in her last days. Much did he, at first, press her 
to go to Italy, as a faint and forlorn hope ; but he 
soon desisted from such vain persuasions. “ The 
thought is sweet to lay our bones within the bosom 
of our native soil. The verdure and the flowers ) 

S»ti 


303 


CONSUMPTICN. 


loved will brighten around my grave — the eame 
trees whose pleasant murmurs cheered my living 
ear will hang their cool shadows over my dust, and 
the eyes that met mine in the light of affection will 
shed tears over the sod that covers me, keeping 
my memory green within their spirits ! ” He who 
had been her lover — but was now the friend and 
brother of her soul, had nothing to say in ^eply to 
these natural sentiments. “After all, they are but 
fancies, Henry — but they cling to the heart from 
which they sprung — and to be buried in the sweet 
church-yard of Blantyre is now a thought most 
pleasant to my soul.” 

In dry summer weather, a clear rivulet im^/cr- 
ceptibly shrinks away from its sandy bed, till on 
some morning we miss the gleam and the mur- 
mur altogether — and find the little channel dry. 
Just in this way was Louisa wasting — and so was 
her life pure and beautiful to the last. The day 
before she died, she requested, in a voice that could 
not be denied, that her brother would take her into 
the church-yard, that she might see the graves of 
her mother and sisters all lying together, and the 
spot whose daisies were soon to be disturbed. She 
was carried thither in the sunshine, on her sick 
chair, for the distance was only a very few hundred 
yards, and her attendant having withdrawn, she 
surveyed the graves with a beaming countenance, 
in presence of her weeping friend. “ Methinks,” 
said she, “ 1 hear a hymn — and chi’ Iren singing 
in the church ! No — no — it is only the remem- 
bered sound of the psalm I heard the last Sabbath 
I had strength to go theri. Oh ! sweet was it 
now as the reality itself!” He who was to have 
been her husband was wholly overcome, and hid 
his face in despair. “ I go — my beloved — to that 
holy place whore there is neither marrying no/ 


THE SHEALING. 


JOS* 

giving in marriage — but we shall meet there, puri- 
fied from every earthly stain. Dry up your tears 
and weep no more. Kiss — Oh kiss me once be- 
fore I die ! ” He stooped down, and she had just 
strength to put her arms round his neck, when, 
with a long sigh, — she expired. 


THE SHEALING. 

An enormous thunder-cloud had lain all day 
over Ben-Nevis, shrouding its summit in thick 
darkness, blackening its sides and base, wherever 
they were beheld from the surrounding country, 
witli masses of deep shadow, and especially fling- 
ing down a weight of gloom upon that magnificent 
glen that bears the same name with the mountain, 
till now the afternoon was like twilight, and the 
voice of all the streams was distinct in the breath- 
lessness of the vast solitary hollow. The in- 
habitants of all the straths, vales, glens, and dells, 
round and about the monarch of Scottish moun 
tains, had, during each successive hour, been ex 
pecting the roar of thur.oer and the deluge of rain, 
but the huge conglomeration of lowering clouds 
would not rend asunder, although it was certain 
that a calm blue sky could not be restored till all 
that dreadful assemblage had melted aw'ay into 
torrents, or been driven off by a strong wind ft om 
the sea. All the cattle on the hills, and on the 
hollows, stood still or lay down in their fear — the 
wih deer sought in herds the shelter of the pine- 
cov jred cliffs — the raven hushed his hoarse croak 
in gome grim cavern, and the eagle left the dread- 


S04 


THE SIIEALINO. 


ful silence oi" the upper heavens. Now and theo 
the shepherds looked from their huts, while the 
shadow of tl>e thunder-clouds deepened the hues 
of their plaids and tartans ; and at every creaking 
of the heavy branches of the pines, of wide-armed 
oaks in the solitude of their inaccessible birth-place, 
the hearts of the lonely dwellers quaked, and they 
lifted up their eyes to see the first wide flash — the 
- disparting of the masses of darkness — and paused 
to hear the long loud rattle of heaven’s artillery 
shaking the foundation of the everlasting moun- 
tains. But all was yet silent. 

The peal came at last, and it seemed as if an 
earthquake had smote the silence. Not a tree — 
not a blade cf grass moved, but the blow stunned, 
as it were, the heart of the solid globe. Then w'as 
there a low, wild, whispering, wailing voice, as of 
many spirits all joining together from every point 
of heaven — it died away — and then the rushing of 
rain was heard through the darkness; and, in a 
few minutes, down came all the jnountain torrents 
in their power, and the sides of all the steeps were 
suddenly sheeted, far and wide, with waterfalls. 
The element of water was let loose to run its re- 
joicing race — and that of fire lent it illumination, 
whether sweeping in floods along the great open 
straths, or tumbling in cataracts from clifts over- 
hanging the eagle’s eyrie. 

Great rivers were suddenly flooded — and the 
little mountain rivulets, a few minutes before only 
silver threads, and in whose fairy basins the 
minnow played, were now scarcely fordable to 
shepherds’ feet. It was time for the strongest tc 
take shelter, and none now would have liked tc 
issue from it; for while there was real dangei to 
life and limb in the many raging torrejits, and in 
tJie lightning’s thlsh, th.e imagination and the sou 


THE SHEALINO. 


305 


kheinseivcs were touched with awe in the loud 
resounding glens, and beneath the savage scowl 
of the angry sky. It was such a storm as becomes 
an era among the mountains ; and it was felt that 
before next morning there would be a loss of 
lives — not only among the beasts that perish, but 
among human beings overtaken by the wrath of 
that irresistible tempest. 

It was not a time to be abroad ; yet all by her- 
self was hastening down Glen-Nevis, from a sheal- 
ing far up the river, a little girl not more than 
twelve years of age — in truth a very child. Grief 
and fear, not for herself, but for anothei-, bore her 
along as upon wings, through the storm ; she 
crossed the rivulets from which, on any other oc- 
casion, she would have turned back trembling; 
and she did not even hear many of the crashes 
of thunder that smote the smoking hills. Some- 
times, at a fiercer flash of lightning, she just lifted 
her hand to her dazzled eyes, and then, unap- 
palled, hurried on through the hot and sulphureous 
air. Had she been a maiden of that tender age 
from village or city, her course would soon have 
been fatally stopped short ; but she hud been born 
among the hills, had first learned to walk among 
the heather, holding by its blooming branches, and 
many and many a solitary mile had she tripped, 
young as she was, over moss and moor, glen and 
mountain, even like the roe that had its lair in the 
coppice beside her own beloved shealing. 

She liad now reached the gateway of the beau- 
tiful hereditary mansion of the Camerons ; and 
was passing by, when slie was observed from the 
windows, and one of the shepherds, who had all 
come down from the mountain-heights, and were 
collected together, (not without a quench of the 
mountain- dew, or water of life,) in a large shed, 


306 


THE SUEALma. 


was sent out to bring the poor girl instantly into 
the house. She was brought back almost by force, 
and then it was seen that she was in tears. Her 
sweet face was indeed all dripping with rain, but 
there was other moisture in her fair blue eyes, and 
when she was asked to tell her story, she could 
scarcely speak. At last she found voice to say, 
That old Lewis Cameron, her grandfather, was 
dying ; that be could scarcely speak when she left 
him in the shealing ; and that she had been run- 
ning as fast as she could to Fort William for the 
priest.” “ Come, my good little Flora, with me 
into the parlour ; and one of the shepherds will go 
for Mr. Macdonald ; you would be drowned in 
trying to cross that part of the road where the Ne- 
vis swirls over it out of the Salmon pool ; come, 
and I will put some dry clothes on you, you are 
just about tlie size of my own Lilias.” The child 
was ill to persuade ; for she thought on the old man 
lying by himself in the shealing at the point of 
death ; but when she saw one of the shepherds 
whom she knew, setting off with rapid steps, her 
wild heart was appeased, and she endeavoured to 
Jry up her tears. Nothing, however, could induce 
her to go into the parlour, or put on the young 
lady’s clothes. She stood before the wide blazing 
peat and wood fire in the kitchen ; and her spirits 
became a little better, when she had told her tale 
in Gaelic to so many people belonging to her own 
condition, and who all crowded round her with 
sympathizing hearts, and fixed faces, to hear every 
tiling about poor old dying Lewis Cameron. 

Old Lewis was well known all round the broad 
base of Ben-Nevis. What his age was nobody 
precisely knew, but it was ascertained that he 
could not be under ninety ; and many main- 
tained that he had outlived an hundred years. He 


THE SHEAMNG. 


3o: 

recollected the famous old Lochiel of the first re- 
bellion — had fought in the strength and prime of 
manhood at Culloden — and had charged the French 
on the heights of Abraham. He had ever since 
that battle been a pensioner; and although he had 
many wounds to show, both of bullets and the 
bayonet, yet his iron frame had miraculously re- 
tained its strength, and Ins limbs much of their 
activity till the very last. His hair was liVc snow, 
but his face was ruddy still — and his large wither- 
ed hand had still a grasp that could hold down the 
neck of the dying red deer to the ground. He had 
lived for thirty years in a shealing built by hijnself 
among a wild heap of sheltering rocks, and for the 
last five, his little orphan gratid-daughter, the only 
one of his blood alive, had been his companion in 
his solitude. Old Lewis was the best angler in the 
Highlands, and he knew all the streams, rivers, 
and lochs. Many thousand grouse had tumbled 
on the heath beneath his unerring aim ; and the 
roe was afraid to show her face out of a thicket. 
But the red deer was his delight — he had been 
keeper to Lochiel once — and many a long day, 
from sunrise to sunset, had he stalked like a shadow 
over ranges of mountains, till he found himself at 
night far away from his shealing. He was a guide, 
too, to botanists, mineralogists, painters, poets, and 
prosers. Philosophers, men of science, lovers of 
the muse, hunters of the picturesque men eager 
after parallel roads and vitrified forts, and town 
gentlemen sent from garrets to describe, for the 
delight and instruction of their fellow-citizens, tho 
grand features of nature ; all came right to old 
Lewis Cameron. Many a sweat did he give them, 
panting in pursuit of knowledge, over the large 
oose stones, and the pointed crags, and tip to the 
middle in heather beneath the sultry sun, toiling 


306 


THE SHEALINO. 


up the perpendicular sides of hill and mountain. 
But, above all, he loved the young Sassenacli, 
when, with their rifles, they followed with him the 
red deer over the bent, and were happy if, at night- 
fall, one pair of antlers lay motionless on the 
heather. 

Such was old Lewis Cameron, who was now 
thought to be lying at the point of death. And it 
was not surprising that the shepherds now collect- 
ed together during t.he storm, and indeed every 
person in the house, felt a deep interest in the old 
man’s fate. “ Ay, his hour is come ; his feet will 
never touch the living heather again,” was the ex- 
pression in which they all joined. They did not 
fear to speak openly before little Flora, who was 
now standing beside the fire, with her long yellow 
hair let loose, and streaming all wet over her 
shoulders ; for the death of the oldest man in all 
the glens was an event to be looked for, and the 
child knew as well as they did that her grandfa- 
ther’s hour was come. Many and many a time 
did she go to the window to look if the priest was 
coming up the glen, and at last she began to fear 
that the rain and the wind, which was now begin- 
ning to rise, after the hush of the thundery air, 
would hinder him from coming at all, and that the 
old man would die alone and unconfessed in his 
shealing. “ Nobody is with him — poor old man— 
never, never may I see him alive again — Lot there 
is no need for me to wait here — I will run home — 
the waters cannot be much higher than when I 
came down the glen.” Flora now wept in passion 
to return to the shealing ; and tying up that long 
wet yellow hair, was ready to start out into the 
wild and raging weather. 

It happened that the minister of the parish, 
y ( ung Mr. Gordon, was in the house, and one of 


THE SHEALING. 


309 


tlie shepherds went to call him out from the par* 
lour, that he might persuade Flora to be contented 
where she was, as certain death would be in hei 
artempt to go up Glen-Nevis. He did all he could 
to soothe her agitation, but in vain ; and as the 
good priest, Mr. Macdonald, did not appear, he 
began to think that old Lewis should not be left so 
long on his death-bed. He therefore addressed 
himself to two of the most active shepherds, and 
asked if they had any objections to take Flora to 
the shealiug. They immediately rose up — on with 
their plaids — and took their staffs into their hands; 
Flora’s face smiled faintly through its tears; and 
Mr. Gordon mildly said, “ What is easy to you, 
shepherds, cannot be difficult to me; I will go with 
you.” The young minister was a Highlander 
born — had in his boyhood trod the mountains of 
Badenoch and Lochaber — and there was not a 
shepherd or huntsman, far or near, that could 
leave him behind, either on level or height. So 
they all issued forth into the hurricane, and little 
Flora was as safe under their care as if she had 
been sitting in the kirk. 

The party kept well upon the sides of the moun- 
tain, for the Nevis overflowed many parts of the 
glens, and the nameless torrents, that in dry weath- 
er exist not, were tumbling down in reddened foam 
from every scaur. The river was often like a lake; 
and cliffs, covered with tall birches, or a few na- 
tive pines, stood islanded here and there, j)erhap3 
with a shrieking heron waiting on a high bough 
for the subsiding of the waters. Now a shepherd, 
and now the minister, took Flora in his arms, as 
they breasted together the rushing streams ; and 
the child felt, that had she been allowed to go by 
herself, the Nevis would have soon swept her down 
into the salt Liiuie Loch. In an hour all the wild 


810 


THE SHEALINO. 


part of the journey was over; their feet were on u vast 
heatlicry bosom of a hill, down which only small 
rills oozed out of gushing springs, and soon lost 
themselves again; and after a few minutes’ easy 
walking, during which Flora led the way, she turn- 
ed about to the minister, and pointing with her lit- 
tle band, cried, “ Yonder’s the shealing. Sir ; my 
grandfather, if alive, will bless your face at his 
bedside.” 

Mr. Gordon knew all the country well, and he 
had often before been at the head of Gien-Nevis. 
But he had never beheld it, till now, in all its glory. 
He stood on the bend of the river, which was seen 
coming down from the cataract several miles distant 
among its magnificent cliffs and dark pine forests. 
The long and final reach of the glen gleamed and 
thundered before him; a lurid liglit fromthe yetagi 
tated heavens fell heavily on the discoloured flood; 
the mountains of heather that enclosed the glen 
were black as pitch in the gloom ; but here and 
there a wet cliff* shone forth to some passing gleam, 
as bright as a beacon. The mass of pines was 
ever and anon seen to stoop and heave below the 
storm, while the spray of that cataract went half 
way np the wooded cliffs, and gave a slight tinge 
of beauty, with its blue and purple mist, to the 
grim and howling solitude. High above all, and 
as if standing almost in another world, was seen 
now the very crest of Ben-Nevis ; for although 
fast-rolling clouds, and mists, and stream, girdled 
his enormous sides, all vapours had left Ins sum- 
mit, and it shot up proudly and calmly into its pure 
region of settled sky. 

But Mr. Gordon had not come here to admire 
the grandeur of Nature, it had struck his soul as 
he looked and listened ; but now he was standing 
at the door of tlie shealing. Rocks lay all arouud 


THE SHEALING. 


311 


it — but it was on a small green plat of its own— 
and over the door, which could not be entered 
even by little Flora without stooping, vvas extend- 
ed the immense antlers of an old deer, wliicli Lewis 
had shot twenty years ago in the forest of Lochiel, 
rile largest ever seen before or since in all the 
Highlands. Flora came out, with eager eyes and 
a suppressed voice, “ Come in. Sir — come in, Sir 
— my grandfather is alive, and is quite, quite sen- 
sible.” 

The young minister entered the shealing — while 
the two shepherds lay down on their plaids below 
some overhanging rocks, where the ground was 
just as dry as the floor of a room. “ Welcome — 
W'elcome, Sir — you are not just the one I have 
been hoping for, — but if he does not arrive till I 
am gone, I trust that, although we are of different 
creeds, God will receive my poor sinful soul out of 
your hands. You are a good pious minister of 
his word — Mr. Gordon, I am a Catholic, and you 
a Protestant — but through Him who died for us, 
we surely may alike hope to be saved. That was 
a sore pang, Sir — say a prayer — say a prayer.” 

The old man was stretched in his Highland garb, 
(he had never worn another,) on a decent clean 
bed, that smelt sweet and fresh of the heather. 
His long silvery locks, of which it was thought he 
had for many years been not a little proud, an«. 
which had so often waved in the mountain winds, 
were now lying still; the fixed and sunken look 
of approaching death was on a face, which, now 
that its animation was calmed, seemed old — old 
indeed — but there was something majestic in his 
massy bulk, stretched out beneath an inexorable 
power, in that shealing little larger than a vaulted 
grave. He lay there like an old chieftain of the 
cider time ; one of Ossian’s heroes unfortunate it 


312 


THE SHEALINO. 


his later age ; and dying ingloriously at last with 
a little weeping Malvina at his heather couch. The 
open chimney, if so it might be called, black with 
smoke, let in a glimmer of the sky ; a small torch 
made of the pine-wood was burning close to the 
nearly extinguished peat embers, and its light had, 
no doubt, been useful when the shadow of the 
diunder-cloud darkened the little window, that con- 
sisted of a single pane. But through that single 
pane the eye could discern a sublime amphitheatre 
of woodland cliffs, and it almost seemed as if 
placed there to command a view of the great cata- 
ract. 

Mr. Gordon prayed — while little Flora sat down 
on the foot of the bed, pale, but not weeping, for 
awe had hushed her soul. Not a word was in his 
prayer which might not have comforted any dying 
Christian, of any creed, in any part of the earth. 
God was taking back the life he had given, and 
an immortal soul was about to go to judgment. 
The old man had made small show of religion — 
but he had never violated its ordinances — and that 
he was a good Catholic was acknowledged, other- 
wise he would not have been so well beloved and 
kindly treated by Mr. Macdonald, a man of piety 
and virtue. Now and then a groan came from 
his ample chest, and a convulsion shook all his 
frame — for there was no general decay of nature 
— some mortal malady had attacked his heart. 
“ Bless you — bless you my dear young boy,” said 
the ancient white-haired image ; “ this is a hard 
struggle, a cannon-ball is more merciful.” Then 
Flora wept, and went up to his head, and wiped 
the big drops from his brow, and kissed him. 
“ This is my little Flora’s kiss, I am sure ; but my 
eyes are dim, and I see thee not. My bonny roe, 
tkou must trot away down, when I am dead, to 


THE SUEALINti. 


313 


the low country, down to some of my friends about 
the fori ; this bit shealing will be a wild den soon, 
and the raveii will sit upon the deer’s horns when 
I am gone. My rifle keeps him on the cliff now — 
but God forgive me ! what thoughts are these for 
a dying man ; God forgive me !” 

Old Lewis Cameron sat up on his heather-bed ; 
and, looking about, said, “ I cannot last long ; 
but it comes in fits ; now I have no pain. Was 
it not kind in that fearless creature to run down 
the glen in that thunder-storm 1 I was scarcely 
sensible when I knew, by the silence of the sheal- 
ing, that she was gone. In a little, I sat up, as I 
am doing now, and I saw her, through that bit 
window, far down the glen. I knew God would 
keep down the waters for her sake ; she was like 
a sea-mew in a storm !” Flora went out, and 
l)rought in the shepherds. They were awe-struck 
on seeing the gigantic old man sitting up with his 
long white hair and ghost-like face; but he stretch- 
ed out his hand to them, and they received his 
blessing. “ Flora, give the minister and the lads 
some refreshment ; eat and drink at my death ; 
eat and drink at my funeral. Ay — I am a pen- 
sioner of the King’s ; and I will leave enough to 
make Auld Lewis Cameron’s funeral as cheerful 
a ane as ever gathered together in a barn, and like- 
wise leave Flora, there, enough to make life blithe 
when she is a woman.” Flora brought out the 
goat-milk cheese, the barley cakes, and the whis- 
key jar ; and old Lewis himself having blessed the 
meal, Mr. Gordon, the shepherds, and little P'lora 
too, sat down and ate 

Old Lewis looked at them with a smile. “ My 
eyesight is come back to me. I see my Flora there 
as bonny as ever. Taste the whiskey, Mr. Gor- 
don, it is sma’ still, and will do harm to no man. 


314 


THE SHEALING. 


Mr. Gordon, }ou may wonder — no, you will not 
wonder, to hear a dying man speaking thus. But 
God has given me meat and drink for a hundred 
years, and that is the last meal I shall ever bless 
I look on you all as fellow-christians, now sup 
ported by the same God that fed me. Eat — drink 
— and be merry. This is the very day of the month 
on which General Wolfe was killed; a proper day 
for an old soldier to die. I think I see the general 
lying on the ground, for I was near him as an or- 
derly Serjeant. Several Indian warriors were by, 
with long black hair and outlandish dresses. I 
saw Wolfe die, and just before he died, our line 
gave a shout, that brought the fire into his dim eyes, 
for the French were flying before our bayonets ; 
and Montcalm himself, though our general did not 
know that, was killed, and Quebec, next day, was 
ours. I remember it all like yesterday.” The 
old man’s white face kindled, and he lifted up his 
long sinewy arm as he spoke, but it fell down upon 
the bed, for its strength was gone. But he had a 
long interval of ease between the paroxysms, and 
his soul, kindling over the recollections of his long 
life, was anxious to hold communion till the very 
last, with those whose fathers he had remembered 
children. His was a long look back through the 
noise and the silence of several generations. 
“ Great changes, they say, are going on all over 
the world now. I have seen some myself in my 
day ; but oh, my heart is sad to think on the 
changes in the Highlands themselves. Glens that 
could once have sent out a hundred bayonets, be- 
long entirely now to some fat LoAvland grazier. 
Confound such policy, says auld Lewis Cameron.” 
With these words he fell back, and lay exhausted 
on his heather-bed. “ Hamish Fraser, take the 
pipes, and gang out on the green, and pla/ 


THt SUEALING. 


31 £ 

Lochiel’s awa* to France.’ That tune njacle 
many a bliiidy hand on that day — the Highlanders 
were broken — when Donald Fraser, your grand- 
father, blew up ‘Lochiel’s awa’ to France.’ He 
was sitting on the ground with a broken leg, and 
och, but the Camerons Avere red wud shame and 
anger, and in a twinkling there was a cry that 
might have been heard frae them to the top of Ben- 
Nevis, and five hundred bayonets were brought 
down to the charge, till the mounseers cried out 
for quarter. But we gi’ed them nane — for our 
souls Avere up, and we were Avet-shod in bluid. I 
was among the foremost Avi’ my broad-SAvord, and 
cut them down on baith sides o’ me like Avindle- 
straes. A broad-sword was ance a deadly weapon 
in these hands, but they are stiff now, and lying 
by my side just like the stone image o’ that man in 
Elgin church-yard on a tombstane.” 

Ilamish Fraser did as-he was desired ; and the 
wild sound of that martial instrument filled the 
great glen from stream to sky, and the echoes roll- 
ed round bnd round the mountain-tops, as if the 
bands of fifty regiments AV'ere playing a prelude to 
battle. “ Weel blawji and Aveel fingered baith,” 
quoth old Lewis, “the chiel plays just like his 
grandfather.” 

The music ceased, and Hamish Fraser, on com- 
ing back into the shealing, said, “ I see two men 
on horseback coming up the glen ; one is on a 
Avhite horse.” “ Ay — blessed be God, that is the 
good priest ; now will I die in peace My last 
earthly thoughts are gone by — he Avill shoAv me 
the salvation of Christ — the road that leadeth to 
eternal life. My dear son — good Mr. Gordon — I 
felt happy in your prayers and exhortations. But 
the minister of my own holy religion is at hand— 
and it is pleasant to die in the faith of one’s fora- 


316 


THE SHEALINO. 


fathers. When he comes — you will leave by 
ourselves— even my little Flora will go with you 
into the air for a little. The rain — is it not over 
and gone 1 And I hear no wind, only the voic« 
of streams.” 

The sound of horses’ feet was now on the turf 
before the door of the shealing; and Mr. Mac- 
donald came in with a friend. The dying man 
looked towards his priest with a happy counte- 
nance, and blessed him in the name of God — of 
Christ — and of his blessed mother the undehled 
virgin. He then uttered a few indistinct words 
addressed to the person who accompanied him ; 
and there was silence in the shealing. 

“ I was from home when the messenger came 
to my house — but he found me at the house of 
Mr. Christie, the clergyman of the English church 
at Fort William, and he would not suffer me to 
come up the glen alone — so you now see him 
along with me, Lewis.” The dying man said, 
“This is indeed Christian charity. Here, in a 
lonely shealing, by the death-bed of a poor old 
man, are standing three ministers of God — each of 
a different persuasion — a Catholic — an Episcopal, 
and a Presbyter. All of you have been kind to 
me for several years — and now you are all anxious 
for the salvation of my soul. God has, indeed, 
been merciful to me a sinner.” 

The Catholic priest was himself an old man — 
although thirty years younger than poor Lewis 
Cameron — and he w.as the faithful shepherd of a 
small flock. He was revered by all who knew 
him for the apostolical fervour of his faith, the sim- 
plicity of his manners, and the blamelessnesi/ of 
his life. An humble man among the humble, and 
poor in spirit in the huts of the poor. But he had 
one character in the Highland glens, where he wat 


THE SUEALINQ. 


317 


known only as the teacher and comforter if tlie 
souls of his little flock — and another in the vvide 
world, where his name was not undistinguished 
among those of men gifted with talent and rich in 
erudition. He had passed his youth in foreign 
countries — but had returned to the neighbourhood 
of his birtii-place as his life was drawing towards 
a close, and for several years had resided in that 
wild region, esteeming his lot, although humble, 
yet high, if through him a few sinners were made 
repentant, and resignation brought by his voice 
to the dying bed. 

With this good man had come to the lonely sheal- 
ing Mr. Christie, the Episcopalian clergyman, who 
had received his education in an English Univer- 
sity, and brought to the discharge of his duties in 
this wild region a mind cultivated by classical 
learning, and rich in the literature and philosophy 
of Greece and Rome. Towards him, a very young 
person, the heart of the old priest had warmed on 
their very first meeting; and they really loved 
each other quite like father and son. The charac- 
ter of Mr. Gordon, although unlike theirs in almost 
all respects, was yet not uncongenial. His strong 
native sense, his generous feelings, his ardent zeal, 
were all estimated by them as they deserved ; and 
while he willingly bowed to their superior talents 
and acquirements, he maintained an equality with 
them both, in that devotion to his sacred duties, 
and Christian care of the souls of his flock, without 
which a minister can neither be respectable nor 
liappy. In knowledge of the character, customs, 
modes of thinking and feeling, and the manners 
of the people, he was greatly superior to both his 
friends; and his advice, although always given 
with diffidence, and never but when asked, wu 
17 * 


318 


THE SHEALINO. 


most useful to them in the spiritual guidance c/ 
their own flock. 

This friendly and truly Christian intercourse 
having subsisted for several years between these 
three ministers of religion, the blessed effects of it 
were visible, and were deeply and widely felt in 
the hearts of the inhabitants of this district. A1 
causes of jealousy, dislike, and disunion, seemei 
to vanislvinto air, between people of these different 
persuasions, when they saw the true regard which 
they whom they most honoured and revered thus 
cherished for one another; and when the ordinary 
unthinking prejudices were laid' aside, from which 
springs so much embittevment of the very blood, 
an appeal was then made, and seldom in vain, to 
deeper feelings in the heart, and nobler principles 
in the understanding, which otherwise would have 
retnained inoperative. Tims the dwellers in the 
glens and on the mountains, without ceasing to 
love and delight in their own mode of worship, 
and without losing a single hallowed association, 
that clung to the person of the minister of God, to 
the walls of the house in which he was worshipped, 
to the words in which the creature humbly ad- 
dressed the Creator, or to the ground in which 
they were all finally to be laid at rest, yet all lived 
and died in mutual toleration and peace. Nor 
could there be a more affecting example of this 
than wiiatwas now seen even in the low and lonely 
shealing of poor old Lewis Cameron. His breath 
had but a few gasps more to make — but his sheal- 
ing was blessed by the presence of those men 
whose religion, different as it was in many outward 
things, and often made to be so fatally different in 
sisentials too, was now one and the same, as they 
Blood beside that death-bed, with a thousand tor« 
rents sounding through the evening air, and oven 


THE SHEALING. 31Q 

slmdowed in their devotion by the ^loom of thr.t 
tnipendous mountain. 

All but the gray-haired priest now left the sheal 
lUg, and sat down together in a beautiful circlet 
of green, enclosed with small rocks most richly 
ornamented by nature, even in this stormy clime, 
with many a graceful plant and blooming flower, 
to which the art of old Lewis and his Flora had 
added blossoms from the calmer gardens of the 
Fort. These and the heather perfumed the air-- 
for the rain, though dense and strong, had not sbav 
^ered a single spray, and every leaf and every bloom 
lifted itself cheerfully up, begemmed with large 
quivering diamond drops. There sat the silent 
party — while death was dealing with old Lewis, 
iiid the man of God giving comfort to his penitent 
spirit. They were waiting the event in peace — 
and even little Flora, elevated by the presence of 
these holy men, whose offices seemed now so 
especially sacred, and cheered by their fatherly 
kindness to herself, sat in the middle of the group, 
and scarcely shed a tear. 

In a little while, Mr. Macdonald came out from 
(he sheafing, and beckoned on one of them to ap- 
proach. They did so, one after the other, and 
thus singly took their last farewell of the ancient 
man. His agonies and strong convulsions tver" 
all over — he was now blind — but he seemed 
bear their voices still, and to lc quite sensible. 
Little Flora was the last to go in — and she staid 
die longest. She came out sobbing, as if her heart 
would break, for she had kissed his cold lips, from 
which there was no breath, and his eyelids that 
fell not down over the dim orbs. “ He is dead — 
he is dead ! ” said the child ; and she went and sat 
down, with her face hidden by her hands, on a 
stone at some distance from the rest, a little birch 


THE 8H EALING. 


3S!() 

tree Imng^ing its limber sprays over her head, am^ 
us llie breeze touched them, letting down its clcai 
oew-drops on her yellow hair. As she sat there, 
a few goats, for it was now the hour of evening 
when they came to be milked from the high clitfy 
pastures, gathered round her; and her pet lainb, 
which had been frisking unheeded among the 
heather, after the hush of the storm, went bleating 
up to the sobbing shepherdess, and laid its head 
on her knees. 

The evening had sunk down upon the glen, but 
the tempest was over ; and though the torrents 
had not yet begun to subside, there was now a 
strong party, and no danger in thfeir all journey- 
ing homewards together. One large star arose iii 
heaven — and a wide white glimmer over a break- 
ing mass of clouds told that the moon was strug- 
gling through, and in another hour, if the ujiper 
current of air flowed on, would be apparent. No 
persuasion could induce little Flora to leave tiie 
shealirig — and Hamish Fraser was left to sit with 
her all night beside the bed. So the company de- 
parted — and as they descended into the great glen, 
they heard the wide wail of the pipe, mixing with 
the sound of the streams and the moaning of clilfs 
and caverns. It was Hamish Fraser pouring out 
a lament on the green before the shealing — a 
mournful but martial tune which the old soldier 
had loved, and which, if there were any supersti- 
tious thoughts in the soul of him who was playing, 
might be supposed to soothe the spirit yet lingering 
in the dark hollow of his native mountains. 


■ELEN EYRE. 


321 


HELEN EYRE. 

In a Leautiful town in the south of Scotland, 
ii uinguished by the noble river that sweeps by it2 
gcrdens, its majestic bridge, its old crumbling 
Uiwer, and a grandee’s princely domains that 
siretch with their single gigantic trees, and many 
SDHcious groves, all around the clustered habita- 
Hons, resided for one half year an English officer 
rf cavalry and a young and lovely woman, who 
ivas — not his wife. He was the youngest son of 
0 noble family, and, with sonie of the vices, pos- 
sessed many of the virtues of his profession. That 
he was a man of weak principles, he showed by 
having attached to him, by the tenderest ties, one 
who, till she had known hiin, had been innocent, 
happy, and respected. That he was not a man of 
bad principles, he showed by an attention to her 
as gentle, refined, and constant, as ever husband 
paid to wife. He loved her truly and well. She 
was his mistress — degraded — despised — looked on 
with curious and scornful eyes ; unspoken to but 
by his voice, solitary indeed when he was absent, 
and revived by his presence into a troubled and 
miserable delight, that even more than her lonely 
agonies told her that she was for ever and irretriev- 
ably lost. She was his mistress: that was known 
to the grave who condemned, to the gay who con- 
nived, and to the tender-hearted who pitied them 
both, her and her seducer! But though she knew 
that such was her odious name, yet when no eyes 
were upon her but those of Marinaduke Stanley, 
she forgot or cared not for all that humiliation, and 
conscious of her own affection, fidelity, and but 
for him, innocence too, she sometimes even admit 


322 


HELEN EYRE. 


ted into her heart a throb of joy and pride in th« 
endearments and attachment of liim wliom all ad- 
mired and so many had loved. To be respectable 
again was impossible ; bnt to be true to the death 
anto her seducer, if not her duty, was now her de 
sj)air ; and while she prayed to God for forgive- 
ness, she also prayed that, when she died, her head 
miofht be lying on his guilty but affectionate bosom. 
To fly from him, even if it were to become a beg- 
gar on the highway, or a gleaner in the field, often 
did her conscience tell her; but though conscience 
spoke so, how could it act, when enveloped and 
fettered in a thousand intertwisted folds of affec- 
tions and passions, one and all of them as strong 
as the very spirit of life '? 

Helen Eyre prayed that she might die : and her 
prayer was granted. He who should have beet) 
her husband, had been ordered suddenly away to 
America — and Helen was left behind, (not altoge- 
ther friendless,) as her health was delicate, and she 
was about to become a mother. They paited 
with many tears — as husband and wife would have 
parted — but dearly as she loved her 3Iarmaduke, 
she hoped that he might never see her more, and 
in a few years forget that such a creature had ever 
been. She blessed him before he w'ent away, even 
upon her knees, in a fit of love, grief, fear, re- 
moi-se, and contrition : and as she beheld him 
wave his white plumes towards her from a distance, 
and then disappear among the trees, she said — • 
“ Now I am left alone for repentance with my 
God !” 

This unfortunate yourrg creature gave birth to a 
child; and after enjoying the deep delight of its 
murmuring lips for a few days, during which the 
desire of life revived within her, she expired with 
it asleep in her bosom. Small, indeed, was the 


UELKN EVRE. 


323 


fiineral of the English officer’s fair English mis- 
tress. But she was decently and quietly laid in 
her grave ; for, despised as she had been when 
living, she was only pitied now, and no one chose 
to think but of her youth, her beauty, her pale and 
melancholy face, her humble mien, and acts cif 
kindness, and charity to the poor, whom she treat- 
ed always as her superiors ; for they, though in 
want, might be innocent, and she had gone far 
astray. Where, too, thought many, who saw the 
funeral pass by, where are her relations at this 
moment 1 No doubt, so pretty and elegant a be- 
ing must have had many who once loved and were 
proud of her ; but such thoughts passed by witlj 
the bier. She was buried, and a plain stone laid 
over her, according to her own desire : “ here 
LIES Helen Eyre, an orphan, aged twenty-two 

YEARS.” 

There was one true Christian who had neither 
been afraid nor ashamed to visit Helen Eyre dur- 
ig the few last weeks of her life, when it seemed 
almost certain that life was near its close. This 
was Mrs. Montgomery, the widow of a country 
gentleman of good family, who had for some years 
resided in the town. This excellent woman knew 
Marmaduke Stanley, and was not a stranger to 
the circumstances of this unfortunate and guilty 
connexion. On his departure, 'she had promised 
to take care that Helen Eyre should be looked 
after in her illness ; and, when the hand of death 
lay upon the poor friendless orphan, she was fre 
quently with herat her bedside, administeri»'g com- 
fort and consolation. Such kindness fiom such a 
person, at such a time, supported the soul of the 
dying mother when it was most disconsolate ; it 
quieted all the natural fears of dissolution ; and 
when she, whose one life had been a model of all 


U24 


HELEN EYBE 


that was good and beautiful and lofty in the 
charaeter, bent down over the penitent sinner and 
kissed her fair young brow, now cold and clammy 
in the death-throes, that Christian kiss seemed to 
assure her that she might be forgiven ; and if God, 
as we believe, beholds the creatures he has made, 
it was registered in heaven. 

Mrs. Montgomery took the infant into her owb 
house ; and had written to inform its father of whal 
had happened, when she read in a newspaper that, 
in a skirmish. Major Marmaduke Stanley had 
been killed. She then opened a letter he had left 
with her on his departure, and found that he had 
bequeathed his small fortune of four thousand 
pounds to Mrs. Montgomery, that she might settle 
it properly on the mother of his child if she sur- 
vived, if not, upon the infant. 

The infant orphan was christened Helen Eyre 
after its mother, whom, fl ail as she had been, there 
was no need that her child, at least, should ever 
disown. No one wished to have the baby that now 
belonged to none. And this excellent lady, from 
DO whim, no caprice, no enthusiasm, but touched 
at the heart with its utter and forlorn helplessness, 
by sorrow for its poor mother’s transgression and 
early fate, and by something of a maternal affec- 
tion for its dead father, resolved to adopt Helen 
Eyre as her own child, and to educate her in a 
woman’s accomplishments, and a Christian’s faith. 
Some smiled — some disdained — and a few even 
blamed, the kindness that could rescue aa orphan 
from a*, orphan’s fate. Many, too, wondered, 
they knew not why, when it was know n that Ma- 
jor Stanley had left all his fortune to Mrs. Mont- 
gomery for behoof of the child. But in a few 
months it was felt by every one, whatever they 
might choose to acknowledge, that the brave soL 


HELEN EYRE. 


321 


(lier had had a good heart, and that he had com 
mittcd the interests of his orplian, even before she 
was born, to one whose character was summed up 
in that word — a Christian. 

It often seems as if those children who have few 
pst to love them in the world, grow up the most 
worthy of love. Here was an orphan horn in sin, 
in shame, and in sorrow, and now left alone on 
the earth ; who grew up beautiful to all eyes, and 
captivating to all hearts. Before five summers 
had shone upon her blue eyes, the child was no 
ticeable among all other children. Her mother 
had been lovely; and there was a time, too, it was 
said, when her presence had been welcome in the 
halls even of the noble, who had visited her parents 
in their pleasant dwelling beside their own church. 
Her father, however deficient in more solid worth, 
had been the ornament of polished life ; and it 
seemed as if nature preserved in this small and 
beautiful and graceful image the united attractions 
of both the unfortunate dead. The very loneliness 
of the sweet child, without a natural home in the 
world, could not but interest every good heart ; 
but her exceeding beauty made an impression al* 
most like that of love even upon the heartless ; 
and “English Helen,” so she was himiliarly call- 
ed, to distinguish her from another child of the 
same Christian name at school, was a favourite 
w’ith all. Besides, she was the adopted daughter 
of Mrs. Montgomery, and that added a charm 
even to her beauty, her sweetness, and her inno- 
cence. 

The heart of Helen Eyre expanded, month after 
month, in the joy of its innocence, and felt the 
holy voice of nature whispering to its new feelings 
of love and affection. The children with whom 
•he played had fathers and mothers, brothers and 


326 


HE! EN EYRE 


sisters, and many other friends. She had not a, 
She loved the lady who was so good to her, and by 
whose bed she slept at night on her own small 
couch. But she knew that it was not her mother 
with w'hom she lived. She had been told that 
both father and mother were dead; and sometimes 
the sweet child wept for those she had never seen, 
and of whom she knew nothing but that they had 
both been buried long ago. Something sad and 
melancholy, therefore, mixed itself with youth’s 
native gladness, and a corresponding expression 
settled itself about her eyes, and often smoothed 
the dimples on her smiling cheeks. “ English 
Helen’s ” own heart told her what she had often 
heard her childish companions say, that she was 
an orphan; but she knew that though that was 
something mournful, it could not be wicked, and 
that, therefore, people would pity her more — and 
not love her less — because her father had been 
killed in the wars, and her mother had died soon 
after she was born of a broken heart. 

One day Helen Eyre had wandered with some 
of her companions into the church-yard, near the 
Old Tower, and, attracted by the murmuring blos- 
soms of a shady horse-chesnut tree, that hung its 
branches over several tombs and grave-stones, in 
a corner near the river-side, she tripped into the 
shade, and letting fall her eyes upon a gray slab, 
she read there her own name, the inscription on 
her mother’s grave. She went home drowned in 
tears, and asked her guardian if that was not the 
store under which her mother was buried. The 
ood old lady went with her to the church-yard, 
and they sat down together upon that stone. He- 
len was now ten years old; and perhaps had 
heard, although she scarcely knew that she had, 
ome dim intimations in the language of her play* 


HELEN EVKE. 


327 


fellows, which t'ney themselves had not under* 
stood, that she was “ a natural child.” Mrs. 
Montgomery spoke to her about her parents ; and 
while the sweet child kept her weeping eyes fixed 
upon her face, as she spoke in a bewildered and 
perplexing grief, she came to know at last that her 
mother had been guilty of a great sin, but had 
been forgiven by God, and had died happy. The 
child was told, too, although that she could scarce- 
ly believe, that some migiit love herself less for 
that reason ; but that the truly good would love 
her the more, if she continued to be what she now 
was, innocent, sweet-tempered, and obedient to 
God’s holy laws. 

“ Y our mother, Helen, was a kind, gentle, and re- 
ligious being ; and you must always think so when 
you weep for her; here beside her grave, or else- 
where. When you are older I will tell you more about 
her, and about your birtli. But, my beloved, my 
good, and my beautiful child, for I do not fear to call 
thee so, even to thy sweet face — be not ashamed ; 
hold up your head, Helen, among your compani- 
ons, and my hands, as long as I live, will dress 
for thee that guileless bosom, and tend the flowing 
of that glossy hair. I am your mother now, He- 
len ; ai-e you not willing to be my child ?” The 
orphan could make no reply, for her little heart 
was full almost to breaking; and she could only 
kiss the hand that took her’s gently into it, and 
bathe it with happy and affectionate tears. They 
left the cliurch-yard; and before they reached the 
sweet cottage on the river’s side, Helen was gazing 
with deliglit on the queen butterflies, as they for a 
moment expanded their rich, brown mottled, and 
scarlet wings, on the yellow lustre of the laburn- 
ums, and tl^en glanced, careering away over the 


B28 


HELEN EYRE. 


fruit-trees into other gardens, or up into the sun- 
shine of the open day. 

In Scotland there prevails, it is believed, a strong 
feeling of an indefinite kind towards those whose 
birth lias been such as that of poor Helen Eyre. 
This feeling is difierentin different minds ; but, per- 
haps, in very few, such as seems reconcileable with a 
true Christian spirit. Scorn and aversion towards 
the innocent, however modified or restrained by bet- 
ter feelings, is not surely, in any circumstances, a 
temper of mind anywhere expressly recommended, 
or indirectly instilled by any passages in the New 
Testament ; and with reverence be it spoken, if we 
could imagine ourselves listening to the living 
Christ, we should not expect to hear from his lips 
lessons of contumely, or luM’d-heartedness to poor, 
simple, innocent orphan children. The morality 
of society is not to be protected by the encourage- 
ment of any feelings which Christianity condemns; 
and as such is the constitution of this world that 
the innocent often suffer for the guilty, that is an 
awful consideration to deter from vice, but surely 
it is no reason for adding to the misfortunes of 
virtue. In coarse and vulgar minds, this feeling 
towards illegitimate children is a loathing repug- 
nance, and a bitter and angry scorn. And the 
name by which they call them is one that comes 
from their mouths steeped in inhuman pride, as if 
there were in it an odious contamination. Alas ! 
who are they that thus turn away with loathing 
from beings formed by God in bis own image I 
Are they all pure — and innocent — and aloof from 
transgression! Or may not in such cases the 
scorn of the despicable, the mean, the cruel, iho 
ignorant, and the licentious, fall upon the head of 
the generous, the just, the jiure, the intelligent, the 
refined, and the pious 1 It is often so. Now, so 


HELEN EYRE. 


32S 


ciety has its own laws, and they are often stern 
enough ; but let them never, with the good, prc' 
vail against the laws of nature ; and let every 
mind that entertains the feeling now alluded to, be 
cautious, in justice to itself and to a fellow-crea- 
ture, and in due reverence of a common Creator, 
to separate from all undeserved violence, all un- 
christian contumely — all uribrotherly or uiisisterly 
hatred, and then they will know to how little it 
amounts, and how easily it must be forgotten, in 
the contemplation of excellence; — and then, too. 
will they feel a far deeper compassion for them in 
whose minds that other rooted passion of contempt 
so rankly grows. There were many who won- 
dered that Mrs. Montgomery could have adopted 
such an orphan. And with that coarse wonder 
they turned away from that noble, high-born, 
high-bred, and, what was far better, tender-hearted, 
compassionate, and pious lady, and from the beau- 
tiful creature at her side rejoicing in protected ir, 
nocence and awakened intelligence, beneath the 
light of her gracious affection. 

As Helen Eyre grew out of her sweet girlhood 
intn the ripening beauty of her virgin prime, this 
fee.jllnv regarding her became somewhat stronger. 
For now there was the jealousy — the envy-^and 
the soite of little minds, painfully conscious of their 
inferiority, and impatient of tot.il eclipse. The} 
had the tone of the world’s most worldly heart on 
‘their side ; and it W'as easy,^ pleasant, safe, and 
satisfactory, to hang a cloud over her by one single 
word that could not be gainsayed, when it was felt 
that in itself the flower was fragrant and most 
beautiful. Campbell has in the simple words of 
genius, spoken of the “ magic of a name so 
likewise is there a blight in a name; a blight whicD 
may not fall on its object, but which can wither up 


330 


HELEN EYRK. 


the best feelings of our nature which the sight of 
that object was fornved to cherish and expand. 
Helen by degrees instructed her heart in this 
knowledge, which from nature alone she never 
t - w-d have had ; lier guardian had told her the 
story of her birth ; she read in books of persons 
situated as she was; and although sometimes her 
heart rebelled at what could not but appear to her 
the most impious injustice, and although even 
sometimes she felt a sort of angry and obstinate 
pride which she knew was wrong ; yet such was 
the felicity of her nature, that the knowledge 
wrought no disturbance in her character ; and she 
was now in her undisputed beauty, her acknow- 
ledged accomplishments, and her conscious inno- 
cence, humble but happy, sedate but not depress 
ed, not too ready either with her smiles or tears, 
but prodigal of both when nature knocked at hei 
heart, and asked admission there for grief or foi 

joy- 

Helen Eyre was no object of pity ; for her bark 
had been drawn up into a quiet haven, and moor- 
ed to a green shore overspread witli flowers. Yet 
still she was an orphan, and the world wore a dif- 
ferent aspect to her eyes from that which' it pre- 
sented to other young persons, with troops ot 
friends and relations, bound to them by hereditarv 
connexions, or by the ties of blood. They had 
daily presented to them food for all the aflections 
of the heart ; their feelings had not either to sleen 
or else to be self-stirred, for a thousand pleasant 
occurrences were constantly touching them with 
almost unconscious delight. Life to them oflereil 
a succession of pleasures ready made to their 
bands, and they had but to bring hearts capable 
i-f enjoymetit. Little demand is made on such a» 
Utose, so long as health cbutumes, and their worhi 


HELEN EYRE. 


331 


y affairs are prosperous, to look often, oi deeply 
ui steadily into their own souls. But with this 
orphan the case was very different. She was oft 
en left alone to commune with her own heart ; 
and unless thoughts, and feelings, and hincies rose 
up there, she must have been desolate. Her friends 
were often not living beings of the same age, and 
with the same pursuits as herself, for of them she 
came at lasc to have but few, but they were still, 
calm, silent, pure, and holy thoughts that passed 
in trains before her, when the orphan was sitting 
in her solitude, with no one near to cheer her, or 
to disturb. When she read in the history of real 
life, or in the fictions of poetry, of characters who 
acted their parts well, and walked in the light of 
nature beautiful and blest, or tried and triumphant 
in the fires of affliction, these she made the friends 
of her heart, and with these she would hold silent 
communion all the day long. No eyes seemed 
averted from her, no faces frowned, nor did any 
narsh voices rise up among the dead. j 411 the 
good over whom the grave had closed were felt to 
be her triends ; into that purified world no unkind 
feelings could intrude ; and the orphan felt no bar 
to intervene between her beating heart, and those 
who were the objects of her profound and devout 
affection. From the slights, or the taunts, or the 
coldness of living acquaintances, Helen Eyre 
could always turn to these sacred intimacies and 
friendships, unbroken and unimpaired ; she could 
bring a tender light from the world of memory to 
soften down the ruggedness or the asperities of 
present existence ; and thus while she. was in one 
sense an orphan, almost alone in life, in another 
she was the child if a family, noble, rich, power- 
ful, great, and good. 

Of sucli a happy nature, and trained by the wi» 


832 


HELEN KTRB. 


doir. of her youthful innocence to su» h halits of 
emotion ami thought, Helen Eyre felt — but i.ot 
keenly — the gradual falling off and decay of al- 
most all her school-friendships. Some of her 
companions left that part of the country altogether, 
and she heard of them no more ; some went home 
in the neighbourhood, and in a short time recog- 
nized her, when they chanced to meet, by a civil 
smile, question, curtesy, or shake of the hand, and 
no more ; some seemed to forget her altogether, 
or to be afraid to remember her; and some treat- 
ed her with a condescending, and patronizing, and 
ostentatious kindness, which she easily understood 
to be a mixture of fear, shame, and pride. Such 
things as these Helen generally felt to be trifles ; 
nor did they permanently affect her peace. But 
sometimes, when her heart, like that of others, de- 
sired a homely, a human, and a lowly happiness, 
and was willing to unite itself in that happiness 
with one and all of its youthful friends, whoever 
they might be, poor Helen could not but feel the 
cruelty and injustice of such alienation, and per- 
haps may have wept unseen, to think that she was 
not allowed to share the affection even of the vul- 
gar, the ignorant, and the mean. Many who at 
school, before they had learned the lessons of the 
world, truly and conscientiously loved her, and 
were grateful to “English Helen” for the assist- 
ance she lent them in their various tasks, and for 
her sweet and obliging disposition in all things, 
began now to keep down their natural emotions 
towards her, and to give way to the common senti- 
ment. Tawdry misses, destitute of all accom- 
plishments, and ignorant of all knowledge needful 
or graceful to woman’s soul, were ashamed to be 
thought friends of Helen Eyre, and thought it 
ueccssarv to explain, that she was only an ao 


HELEN EYrtE. 


333 


qwuintance when they were at the Olivers’ Board- 
ing-school, adding, that she was to be pitied, for 
that although, like all persons in her situation, she 
was excessively proud, yet she was certainly vert 
clever, and did not want heart. 

No doubt it would have been nothing very re- 
markable, had Helen Eyre, under such circum- 
stances, become what such excellent judges es- 
teemed her to be, irritable, unamiable, and proud. 
This treatment might have soured her disposition, 
and armed her against an unjust and cruel world. 
Some struggles she may have had against such 
feelings, for she was not without her frailties and 
imperfections ; her cheek may have flushed, and 
her heart beat with indignation, when insulted by 
overweening civility, or spiteful scorn. Though 
she felt pride to be a vice, so was meanness ; and, 
orphan as she was, and illegitimate too, conscious 
innocence and virtue, good-will to her fellow-crea- 
tures, and piety to her Creator, gave her rights 
and privileges which were entitled to respect, and 
which without blame, she might vindicate, when 
slighted, insulted, or abused. Therefore, though 
humble, she was not abased, and a mild pensive 
dignity overspread all her demeanour which abash- 
ed the mean, and won the commendation of all 
whose souls possessed a single spark of native 
nobility. Indeed, in her presence it was no easy 
matter to maintain or put into practice those un- 
christian principles which, when she was absent, 
burst forth in all their abject and slavish violence. 

Her guardian, protector, and mother, Mrs. Mont- 
gomery, w'as a woman who did not pretend to be 
altogether free from these prejudices or feelings ; 
which she kncAV were too often carried to a wicked 
and sinful degree. But having had Helen put 
into her arms when an infant, out of the yet warm 


334 


HELEN EYRE. 


bosom of her dead mother, she had then fe.t bu 
as a human being and a Christian towards a help 
less child. Aftection kept pace with Helen’s 
growth, beauty, virtues, and accomplishments ; 
and not the slightest shade of this feeling now 
overcast her love. It had long been extinguished 
by the power of innocence and joy; and the know- 
ledge of the strength of such prejudices in the 
minds of others, had now only the effect of in- 
creasing her pride in her dear orphan, and of add- 
ing a holier tenderness to her protecting love. 
“ Shall she be despised whom every morning and 
every night 1 see on her knees before God ; she 
Avhom that God has created so good and so beau- 
tiful ; and who would die for the sake of my old 
gray hairs I” There was no occasion to conceal 
one thought from Helen Eyre — she knew her 
situation now perfectly and wisely — she acknow- 
ledged that her parents’ sins were a misfortune to 
her — she was willing to bear the burden of their 
errors — to suffer what musi be suffered — and to 
enjoy meekly, humbly, and gratefully, what might 
be enjoyed. Were all the world to despise her — 
such was her gratitude and affection to her mother, 
that in that alone she could be satisfied — to live 
for her — to tend her declining age — and, if surviv- 
ing her, to dedicate the holiest thoughts of her re- 
tired life to her memory. 

But there was one whom Helen Eyre could call 
her friend, one as young, as innocent, almost as 
beautiful as herself, and that was Constance Beau- 
mont. Constance was the daughter of an old, 
indeed a noble family, and her mother, although 
justly proud of her rank in society, had not dis- 
countenanced her childish friendship with Helen, 
who lived under the roof of one of lier own most 
respected friends. Still, this was a friendship 


HELEN EYRE. 


336 


which she had wished in her heart might iusensi* 
bly fade away as her daughter advanced in life; 
for although her nature was above all miserable 
scorn towards a young creature so worthy of all 
love, yet she properly w shed that the heart of her 
only daughter should be among her own kin, and 
that its deepest and tenderest sympathies should 
not be drawn away from the bosom of her own 
family. She had cheerfully allowed 'Constance to 
bring Helen to the Hirst during the vacations, and 
she coiild not but love the sweet orphan. She 
saw that her daughter could never learn any thing 
bad or mean, or vulgar, from such a companion, 
but, on the contrary, could not fail to have every 
virtue expanded, and every accomplishment height- 
ened, by communication with one to whom nature 
had been so lavish in her endowments. Mrs. 
Beaumont had too much good feeling, and too 
much good sense, to seek to break olF such a 
friendship in their riper years ; but it could scarce- 
ly be called blameable if she wished and hoped ir. 
her heart, that its passionate warmth might be 
abated. She had another reason for desiring this, 
which she scarcely yet owned to her own heart — 
she had an only son, whose education in England 
was now completed, and who, she feared, might 
love Helen Eyre. The thought of such an alliance 
was unendurable — and Mrs. Beaumont believed, 
that, dearly as she loved her son, she would rather 
see him in the grave, than married to an illegiti- 
mate orphan. 

That such was the state of this lady’s mind, 
Helen Eyre had too true a sense of her own con- 
dition not to know. Of her thoughts respecting 
her son, indeed, she in her thoughtless innocence 
could suspect nothing, nor had she ever seen him 
but once when he was a school-bov. But she 


HELEN E'rAE. 


^6 

Anew that Mrs. Beaumont was proud — thouclj not 
offensively so — of her own ancestry and of her 
dead Imsband’s. Indeed, her stately manners were 
slightly tinged with pride — and Helen had never 
left the spacious and rich rooms of the Hirst, and 
its gallery of old ancestral portraits, without a feel* 
ing, not of depression arising from her own in- 
significance, but of the wide distance at which she 
stood in rank from her best beloved friend and 
sister, the amiable and graceful Constance. Nei- 
ther could she help feeling that Constance must 
feel this too ; and every time she met or parted 
with her, there was now a faint sadness at her 
heart, and something that seemed to forebode 
separation. 

But Constance Beaumont was too high-born to 
fear making a friend of one on whose birth there 
was a stain, even if she had not been too high 
minded to sutfer such a cause to interrupt their 
friendship. Strong and secure in her own high 
rank, and stronger and more secure in her noble 
nature, no sooner did she discern the full extent of 
the general sentiment entertained towards Heleu 
Eyre on the score of her birth, than every warm, 
pure, disinterested, and passionate emotion of her 
soul yearned towards her, and she vowed, that 
as Helen had been the delight and blessing of her 
childhood and early youth, so should her heart be 
bound to her all her life long, and own her at all 
tirres and in . all places, with affection, gratitude, 
and pride. Accordingly, she never was in the 
town where Helen resided without visiting her — 
she kept up a constant and affectionate correspond- 
ence with her — she insisted on seeing her frequent- 
ly atlhe Hirst —and often, often, with all the eager 
joyfulness of lovers, did these two beautiful and 
nappy young creatures meet, almost by stealth, in 


HELEN EYRE 


337 


the woods and groves, and among the gentle sloping 
hills, to enjoy a solitary hour of impassioned friend- 
ship. Constance would not have disobeyed her 
mother in any positive injunction ; of these sisterly 
assignations she was conscious tliat her mother 
would not have approved; but were the best and 
sweetest of all natural feelings to give way to a 
faint consideration of a doubtful duty? Could 
sucli disobedience be called wrong? And if it 
were so, might not the fault be repeated over and 
over again without remorse or self-upbraiding? 
So Constance felt, and so she acted — nor in thus 
being a dutiful friend, is there any reason to be- 
lieve that she was an undutiful daughter. 

Thus was opening upon her the sweet and de\*y 
prime of the orphan’s life, when an annual meeting 
took place of all the first families in the county, 
and indeed of people of all ranks and conditions, 
on a large meadow by the river side, near the 
town, to witness the skill of the “Ancient Band of 
Border Bowmen.” The sunny day flowed jn in 
joyful and exhilarating pastimes, and in the even- 
ing there was a splendid assembly. Mrs. Mont- 
gomery was there, and Helen Eyre by her side. 
All the youth, beauty, and grace of the south of 
Scotland were present together, and although 
Helen Eyre was certainly one of the loveliest of 
the lovely, it could not be said that she attracted 
universal attention. There were many circles 
formed round many attractive centres — none slione 
exactly like the moon among the lesser stars — but 
of these stars themselves some were brighter than 
others, or diffused a mellower lustre. Helen 
Eyre knew her own situation — neither proud nor 
ashamed ; her dress was simpler than that of many 
others, but such as it became a lady to wear on 
such an occasion — a few pearls were round her 


HEI.EN EYRE. 


3<tS 

soft auburn Iiair — and no eye looked upon nw 
once, sitting lialf retired in her modest loveliness, 
without looking again and again — no heart, per- 
haps, but fell, after ranging over all the sjdendid 
galaxy, that there was one who had only to come 
forward, and seek, in order to gain the prize of 
grace, elegance, and beauty. The music — the 
dancing — the stir — the waving of plumes — the 
sparkling of gems — smiling countenances, and 
happy voices — all touched the orphan to the very 
heart — that heart kindled with tlie joy of youth, 
and scarcely ever had Helen Eyre felt so happy 
and so imbued with the bliss of life. All thoughts 
were banished but those of exhilaration and glad- 
ness — she surrendered up her spirit to the gaiety, 
the mirth, and the glee that were sparkling, and 
whispering, and moving all around her — and she 
felt that a ball was, indeed, one of the most de- 
lightful things in this world. 

Mrs. Montgomery had her pride, too, in her 
orphan, as well as any mother in her child ; and 
she took care that Helen Eyre should either have 
respectable friends — or none. This was the first 
public meeting at which Helen had been present; 
and when she saw every one dancing around her, 
her light heart longed to join the group. She 
looked with sparkling and delighted eyes on her 
sweet Constance, distinguished wherever she moved 
along; and at length that beautiful girl came up 
to her, and whispered in her ear, that her brother, 
who had arrived from England too late for the 
archery, desired to be made acquainted with one 
of whom he had heard so much — Helen Eyre. 
Helen looked to Mrs. Montgomery, and rising up, 
blushing, but unembarrassed, joined the dance 
with Henry Beaumont. As they took their place 
in the good old country-dance, (not very far from 


HELEN EYRE. 


339 


lh« tojjj) there was much tossing of heads — purs- 
ing of mouths — bridling up of elegant and inele- 
gant figures — loud whispering — considerable titter- 
ing, and some little downright rudeness. But 
beauty will have its triumph ; and Helen Eyre 
stood unruffled in that small storm. Henry Beau 
niont, too, was a young man of birth and great 
estates — by far the most elegant and accomplished 
person in the room, and an officer in the Guards; 
and it was soon understood by the male part of 
the scorners, that it might not be quite prudent to 
express scorn or slight towards any body who stood 
opposite him in the dance. There was a haugh- 
tiness in his eye somewhat distressing to upstart 
people, and he carried himself in a way not very 
describable, but quite intelligible to the meanest 
aud most vulgar capacity. He was likewise up- 
wards of six feet high — and when it was his turn 
to lead off with Helen Eyre, there was a most 
polite attention shown to all their movements. It 
is no great merit, surely, to dance well ; but now 
it seemed as it were — for every eye was turned 
upon that graceful pair, and even the most sense- 
lessly and basely proud felt that it was a pity 
that Helen Eyre had been so born, for that she 
excelled in every thing she tried, and was, indeed, 
most truly beautiful. Helen felt, and she enjoyed 
her triumph. To herself she attributed little of the 
politeness shown by young Beaumont; but her 
heart overflowed with gratitude towards Constance; 
and when she again took her seat beside Mrr. 
riontgomery, scarcely could she refrain from tears, 
so touched was she by the noble kindness of hei 
friend. The evening passed away delightfully— 
Helen did not dance again — but she was frequent 
ly spoken to by young Beaumoni, and whether hei 
happiness gave a colour to every thing around her 


340 


HELEN ETRK. 


or it was really so, she thought that all her no 
quaintances looked less coldly and distinctly upon 
her, and that little or no distinction seemed now 
to exist between herself and the other young and 
happy creatures laughing and talking on every 
side. She even dreamed of this meeting in he 
sleep ; and in that dream it was not probable tha 
she should see every body except young Henry 
Beaumont. 

Henry Beaumont never concealed his feelings; 
and next day he declared to his mother, that all 
Scotland did not hold such another delightful crea- 
ture as Helen Eyre ! The old lady heard these 
words with great gravity and solemnity, and said 
that she hoped her son would remember his birth, 
and not fall in love with such a person as poor 
Helen Eyre, however good and heautiful. “ Fall 
in love, mother — who talks of falling in love? I 
have not fallen in love — not I — but this much is 
certain, that I must inquire of all my partners how 
they are this morning;” — and with that he flung 
out of the room, mounted his horse, and galloping 
across the country, as if at a steeple chase, he soon 
found himself walking in a pretty little garden on 
Tweedside, with the good, worthy, old Mrs. Mont- 
gomery and her fair Helen. He called upon none 
of his other partners that day at least, and his sub- 
sequent asseverations that he had not fallen in 
love, became less and less vehement. The truth 
is, that he had fallen in love — that he was despe- 
rately enamoured — and being a young man of 
ardent feelings and headstrong will, he swore an 
oath within his soul, on parting from Helen that 
forenoon, that, if he could gain her love, he would 
make her his wife ! 

Henry Beaumont was not without pride — indeed 
• was his besetting sin. But his heart was full of 


HELEN EYRE. 


341 


leiulerness, and the situation of Helen E^re was 
such as to bring all that tenderness up frons its 
deepest spring. He was proud of his ancestry— 
perhaps of his own accomplishments — of his fine 
person — and the power of his manners. He had 
been distinguished at a great public school, and 
afterwards at an English University, fi u- the bril- 
liancy of his talents. He no sooner joined the 
Guards, than he took his place, at once, among 
the most polished and elegant society in the world. 
He had met universal admiration; and all these 
things together, although he well knew they pos- 
sessed little intrinsic or permanent value, could 
not but influence his temper and disposition, be- 
fore the gradually acquired wisdom of riper years 
had mellowed the impetuosity of youth, and ex- 
tended its range of feeling and of thought. He 
was, therefore, considered by many a haughty and 
arrogant young man, and not altogether unjustly; 
but the native generosity of his heart was con- 
tinually showing itself, and although mere t c- 
quaintances or strangers might be repelled by 1 is 
demeanour, no man could be more esteemed or 
beloved by his friends. Now a new chord was 
touched in his heart. This sweet simplicity of 
Helen Eyre, combined, as it was, with perfect 
elegance and gracefulness, took his eye at the first 
glance — and although it could not be said to have 
gained, yet it certainly at once touched, his aflec- 
tions. As the innocence of her heart, and the 
intelligence of her mind, indicated themselves un- 
consciously in every artless, yet well-chosen word, 
love and admiration of a better kind stole into his 
breast ; and her exceeding loveliness and beauty 
gave the warmth of passion to an attachment which 
was of rapid growth, ami after a few interviews 
was blended vitally wiili his very heart’s blood 


342 


HELEN ETRB. 


The tone of her voice now thrilled through everi 
fibre of his frame — her image, during absence, 
haunted him, either sad or smiling, alike irre- 
sistible and subduing — and seeing no real obstacle 
in the way of his happiness, he thought in his soli- 
tary rambles through the woods and over the hills, 
(for now he who had hitherto lived constantly in 
the stir of life, loved to be alone,) that Providence 
had kindly sent this angelic being to bless him as 
long as he lived on earth He thought of her — 
now in her virgin beauty — now as his bride — now 
as his wife — now as the mother of his children — 
and his heart was sick, his very soul was faint in 
the fever of tumultuous passion, till calmed again 
by solemn thoughts of eternal union between him 
self and Helen here and in heaven. 

The love which Helen Eyre felt towards him 
was of a very different kind. It was utterly hope- 
less, and therefore it was utterly indulged, ^le 
knew that she could never be his wife — that he 
w luld never stoop to marry her — that Constance 
ei en would not like to see her brother forming a 
connexion below bis own rank — and that his mo- 
ther would rather see her poisoned or drowned, at 
least dead and buried, than the wife of. her Henry. 
All these convictions gave her little or no distress, 
for they were not brought upon her unexpectedly, 
to damp a heart that had been warmed by other 
thoughts — they formed the habitual knowledge of 
that humble heart, and they and thoughts like them 
had been instilled into her bosom by her good and 
wise guardian, who knew that to save her from 
melancholy, it was necessary to show her the 
truth of life, and to remove all delusions. Helen 
Eyre, therefore, allowed her soul to rejoice 
within her, in tlie agitation of a new and heavenly 
happiness, whenever Henry Beaumont appeared 


HELEN ETRK. 


349 


frith his smiling countentince, that brightened uf 
the room, or the field, or the garden, with an elFul- 
gence of bliss. She knew her own innocence — 
her own resignation — and she knew that if Mrs. 
Montgomery, who was now very old, were to die, 
most solitary would be her own lot. Thcrefoii 
she spoke, smiled, and walked with Henry Beau- 
mont, as with the only being on earth, whom, in 
the sacred silence of her soul, she would, till her 
dying hour, perfectly love. He could not pene- 
trate into her thoughts ; he could not look, with 
those bold, bright, beautiful eyes, into the covert 
of her inner spirit, where they all lay couched 
night and day for ever ; he would place his love 
on some one of whom he had no cause to he 
ashamed, and who would be welcomed to the hall 
of his fathers ; he would then only bestow a pass- 
ing smile, or word, upon the orphan ; but she, the 
orphan herself, would cherish him in blameless 
and indulged passion in her bosom; and call down 
die blessing of God, morning and evening, and 
many a time beside, on the heads of himself, his 
wife, whoever she might be, and the children that 
might rise up, like flowers, around their feet. A 
love so hopeless ; so pure ; so unselfish; ana so 
unknown, it surely could be no sin for her to cher- 
ish, who had no relations of her own, and few 
friends indeed, — friends doomed, no doubt, to be 
fewer still, year after year, till at last she might 
have none to comfort her but her sweet Constance, 
whom other affections might also keep too often 
away, and the image of that brother ; an image 
which engraven on her heart, could only cease to 
be, when that heart was broken, or had wasted 
and withered away into the dust. 

Helen was walking oneevening by the river-side, 
and had descended into a small green glade on a 


344 


HELEN EYRE. 


wooded bank, from which there was a cheerfu 
and splendid prospect of the town and the ricli 
country round, when Henry Beaumont was at hei 
side, and taking her hand into his, pressed it tc 
his heart, and tlien led her to a stone-seat beside a 
little spring that bubbled up through the roots of 
the trees, and danced its short silvery course down 
into the Tweed. Poor Helen’s breath came quick- 
ly when he pressed her to his bosom, and with a 
few burning kisses and breathing words, declared 
his love and passion, and that she must become 
his wife. A pang of joy went througli her heart, 
and she could just fiintly utter, “Your wife!” 
“ Yes — my wife ; say that it will be so ; and may 
God forget me if I am not kind to you — my best 
and most beautiful Helen — all the days of my life!” 
“ Oh 1 Sir ; you could be unkind to no one ; but 
think — oh think — who I am — unfit and unworthy 
to be the wife of Henry Beaumont 1” He had 
an eloquent tongue ; an eloquent eye; — and there 
was eloquence in the throbbing and beating of the 
heart that swelled his manly breast. He held 
Helen in his arms, as if she had been a frightened 
and palpitating dove ; and she wished not to be 
released from that dear embrace. She, the poor 
despised and slighted orphan, heard herself blessed 
by him who was the pride and fiovver of Scotland’s 
youth; his gentle, and tender, and respectful kisses 
stirred up ail the holy thoughts that she had hid- 
den in her heart, that they might lie there unseen 
forever; and in that trance of bliss, they all over- 
flowed ; and a few words of confessed aftection 
escaped her lips. “ Yes ; I love you beyond life 
and my own soul ; but never, never. Sir, may I be 
your wife. Think who you are ; and then who 
am I ; and a voice will tell you that we can nevei 
be united,” With these words she broke from his 


HELEN ETRE. * 


34A 


arms, and kn^lt down, nor was it in his power, so 
confounded was he, for a few minutes to lift hei 
up. But though I know you can never many 
me, remember — oh ! never, never cease to remem- 
ber, that I fell down on my knees before you ; and 
vowed before that God who has hitherto preserved 
me in innocence and peace, to devote myself hence- 
forth to your love. Enough will it be for me to 
cherish your image for ever in my heart ; to weep 
with joy when I hear you are happy; never to re- 
pine, nor envy her happiness who may one day 
lie in your bosom; but since God sent me into 
the world an orphan unhappily born, let me strive 
to subdue my soul to an orphan’s fate, and submit 
juietly and piously to the solitary years that may 
be awaiting me, when my mother’s gray hairs are 
covered with darkness. Now, Sir; now, my be- 
loved Henry Beaumont, let us either part, or walk 
away in silence, from this spot, which to me will 
be ever a hallowed place ; for of love and marri- 
age never more must our speech be ; they are not 
for us.” 

Helen separated from her lover within a mile of 
her home ; and had, on her arrival there, suffi- 
ciently recovered her self-command to be able to 
appear composed before Mrs. Montgomery ; but 
she had never concealed from her dear mother 
any incident that affected her happiness, and she 
knew that it was now her duty to make a full dis- 
closure of what had passed. She did so ; and 
had the satisfaction to find that her conduct brought 
tears of joy into her mother’s eyes. The good 
old lady assured her that God would reward her 
tor the high-principled sacrifice she had made ; 
and on retiring to her bed-room at night, she bless 
ed her orphan with more than wonted fervour and 
solemnity. 


346 


IIEI.EN EYRE. 


No sleep was there this nijjlit for Helen Eyre- 
Slie had made a great sacrifice ; and nature now 
rose up against it. Why should she not become 
the wife of Henry Beaumont, if he loved her, as 
he said, better than all the world? Ought hei 
birth to be a bar between her and a whole life of 
bliss? Would she be violating any duty ; doing 
rnjury or wrong to any living creature ; by yield- 
ing herself up in wedlock to the man she so ten- 
derly loved, and whom, she knew, she could make 
happy? W’’ere all the deepest — holiest — most aw- 
ful affections of the soul to be denied to him and 
to her, merely because their union might oftend a 
prejudice, or at best a feeling that surely never 
could be vital, nor set in just opposition to all that 
the human soul felt to be sanctified in its existence? 
What if his mother were to be offended ; might 
she not be soothed and reconciled by constant 
esteem and humble respect, and be brought at last 
to look without reproachful eyes on the orphan 
who made her son happy? But then, this preju- 
dice against her she knew to be with many “ a se- 
cond nature and that it could not be rooted out 
without shaking perhaps many more feelings, 
which, although not necessarily connected with it, 
had been so intertwined with it during the progress 
of life, that they too might suffer ; so that to over- 
come this sentiment against her, a radical change 
or revolution never to be hoped for must take place 
in the mind of Mrs. Beaumont. She saw, too, 
that Mrs. Montgomery felt as she felt ; and had 
approved of her conduct, solely because she knew 
that Henry’s high-born and haughty moth.er would 
never acknowledge her as his bride. So Helen 
rose with the light ; and as the bright, cheerful, 
■iuging morn advanced, her heart was insensibly 
testored to its former serenity ; and the orphan 


HELEN EYRE. 


347 


was once more happy and ciiitented with her 
lot. 

Then, too, she thought what a heartless sin it 
would be, even if her marriage with Henry Beau- 
mont could take place, to leave her old mother, 
who was now so weak and frail. She had been 
taken, when a baby only a few days old, under 
the protection of that saint; and would she fly off 
on the wings of a selfish and ungrateful love, and, 
forgetting those tottering steps and dim eyes, sink 
into the bosom of one whom she had known for a 
few weeks only, and to whom she owed nothing 
but a few impassioned woras and vows 1 Such 
thoughts came across her heart. But she was no 
weak enthusiast even in virtue. And her own pure 
heart told her, that though it would never have al- 
lowed her to leave her mother, who was much 
broken down, and too plainly sinking into the 
grave, yet that she might, without any violation or 
forgetfulness of her filial duties, have given Henry 
Beaumont a pledge to become his wife, when the 
event she feared and shuddered indeed to name, 
but which every 'ne knew was near, had taken 
place. All these M'ere bewildering thoughts; and 
when poor Helen went into her mother’s room, 
which she did every morning at a stated hour, her 
heart was labouring under a heavy load of emotion. 

Helen drew the curtains, and was about to kneel 
down at the bedside, and bless her aged benefac- 
tress in prayer. But it seemed that she had not 
yet awoke ; and, stooping down, the orphan affec- 
jonately whispered a few words into her ear, that 
she might gently dispel the slumber. Bui that was 
a sleep which neither low whisper nor loud thnii- 
der-crash might disturb. Helen knew that her 
mother was dead ! And, for the first time in her 
life, for her heart was the mistress, and not th« 


J48 


HELEN EYRE. 


slave of its passions, she fainted at the sight of the 
motionless body, with her arms laid softly on its 
breast. 

Before the sun had reached its meridian, the 
death of Mrs. Montgomery was known for many 
miles round the town where she had led more than 
twenty years of a benign and charitable life. The 
melancholy tidings soon reached the Hirst, and 
Constance Beaumont flew to comfort her dearest 
friend. Nor did her mother, who yet knew no- 
thing of Henry’s avowal of his love to Helen, think 
of preventing Constance from carrying comfort to 
the bereaved orphan. Hers was a proud but a 
warm heart ; and having truly loved Mrs. Mont- 
gomery, it was in tears that she saw Constance 
depart to cheer the poor creature who was now 
sitting by the corpse of her whom she had loved 
and respected from childhood, and whom she was, 
ere long, to follow to the grave. That thought of 
their ages being the same, was at once tender and 
solemn ; and something of the sanctity of that 
pure unmingled affection with which she regarded 
he memory of Mrs. Montgomery, could not but 
attach to Helen Eyre, who had so long tended her 
declining age, and repaid, by the most beautiful 
constancy of filial love, the cares which had been 
lavished, in the warmth of nature and the charity 
of Christian faith, upon her orphan head. 

Helen knew that Constance would, immediately 
on hearing of Mrs. Montgomery’s death, write her 
a letter of tender condolence ; but she was not 
prepared for such excessive kindness, when that 
most amiable girl opened her bed-room door with 
her own hand, and with soft steps and streaming 
eyes, went up to her and kissed her cheek. The 
orphan felt in that embrace, that she was not yet 
■olitary in the world. There was nothing to break 


HELEN EYRE. 


349 


this friendship, although much to crusli that othei 
love, and she was glad, even in her sjrrow, to 
know, that through all the changes and chances 
of this life, she would still hold a place in the heart 
of Constance Beaumont. The dead stillness of 
the house was supportable, now that the arm of her 
sister was round her neck — and they soon went 
hand in hand together, and gazed on the beauti- 
fully serene countenance of her whose spirit was 
in heaven. Of the two, Constance most loudly 
wept, for her tears fell more for the living than 
the dead. Who in all the world could be more 
solitary than the orphan Helen Eyre ? Yet her 
brow — eyes — cheeks and lips were all calm — 
there was no agitation — nothing like despair in her 
quiet motions — and the light of God’s mercy shone 
radiantly upon her as she knelt down to a prayer 
of thanksgiving in that desolate house. Never 
before had the full perfection of her character been 
made manifest. Now it was tried, and met the 
sudden and severe demand. Her voice faltered 
not, nor did her heart quake. She was alone on 
the earth — but God was in heaven — and with that 
sublime thought Helen Eyre was now stronger in 
her utter destitution, than if without it she had been 
entrenched in the midst of a host of mortal friends. 
The spirit of her piety kindled that too of her be- 
loved Constance — and they sat together in the 
silent house, or in twilight walked out among the 
secret trees, perfectly composed and happy, till the 
day of the funeral. 

That day was, indeed, one of sore trial — and 
Helen needed the support of her friend. Often, 
often — on every day since her death, had she stolen 
into the room where her mother lay, and sat by 
the bedside as motionless as the figure that lay 
there ; but the hour was come when these visit# 


S50 


HELEN EYRE. 


were to end, and the phantom was to be borne off 
into the chambers of decay. In the silence of her 
darkened bedroom, with Constance sitting at her 
couch, the orphan heard the frequent feet of the 
company assembling at the funeral. The friends 
were silent. At last the funeral was heard to be 
departing from the house. At that moment Heler 
rose, and looking through an opening of the dark 
ened window, she saw the bier in motion — slowly 
borne away up the avenue, below the shadow of 
the trees. A tall figure was at the right side of the 
coffin — one of the mourners. It was Henry Beau- 
mont ; his head was bowed down, and his face 
sedate in a manly sorrow. “ See how my brother 
weeps !” said Constance : and Helen did not fear 
then to call down the blessing of God upon his 
head, and then turning to Constance, she said, 
“ Happy, happy art thou to have such a brother!” 
And as they were kissing each other, the funeral 
disappeared. 

Two days after the funeral, Mrs. Beaumont 
came for her daughier. She behaved with the 
greatest tenderness and sympathy to Helen Eyre 
and had not sat long in company with the orphai. 
till her soul was even awed by the sanctity of her 
resignation. The flowers that the old lady had so 
carefully attended did not miss her hands; the 
room bore no marks of the distraction or forgetful- 
ness of passionate grief; Helen’s dress was simple 
and graceful as ever; and except that her face 
was somewiiat wan, and her voice occasionally 
tremulous, there were no other outward symptoms 
of sorrow. If the orphan had thought of the fu- 
ture, it was plain that she felt that vista to termi- 
nate in the mystery of a darkness spread ojt in 
mercy from the hollow of God’s awful hand, and 
that she was not about ta terrify herself with phau 


HELEN EYRE. 


35i 


toms of her own creation. If sorrow, sickness, o. 
desertion by friends, were to be her lot, she would 
lay her hands upon the Bible, and endure the de 
cree. But from the mildness of her expressive 
countenance, it seemed that her heart was confined 
chiefly tp dreams of the happy past. She had no 
sins — and not many frailties with which to reproach 
herself — for these her contrition needed not to be 
bitter — no harsh or hasty words — no unamiable or 
unfilial looks had ever passed from her towards 
her benefactress — and as the humblest are permit- 
ted to enjoy the delight of conscious piety, and of a 
sincere wish to do well, so was Helen Eyre now 
happy in the remembrance of all her affection to 
her mother, and of every little daily and hourly 
act performed, not from duty, but in love. 

Mrs. Montgomery had bequeathed to the orphan 
the pleasant dwelling in which she had passed all 
her days ; and Helen desired no other place of 
retirement till she should be called to the last finlfl 
and profound repose. The sacred influence of 
death had quite suppressed — not extinguished her 
pure passion for Henry Beaumont ; and, without 
agitation, she sat nowin the presence of his stately 
mother, nor feared ever to deserve her frowns. 
She had seen Henry walking and weeping, mourn- 
ing by the side of that coffin, and the remembrance 
was now sad and delightful to her soul ; nor, if he 
could be happy without her, did she wish ever to 
behold him more. A lonely life needed not to be 
ji melancholy one. She had stores for thought 
laid up in her heart, young as it was, and powers 
of thought, too, confirmed by nature, and strength- 
sued by contented innocence. And she feared 
not, when the years of her youth had glided away 
in the seclusion of those peaceful shades, that age 
would bring it* own happiness and its own wis* 


358 


HELEN EYRE. 


dom, iM)r was there any reason to fear even th 
coming on of feeble footsteps and of gray hairs. 
Henry Beaumont’s impassioned vows never could 
be realized; but that place where she had heard 
them might be visited often and often — and hers, 
she knew, was not a weak and repining heart, 
that would die of hopeless and unfortunate love. 

While they were sitting together calmly and 
kindly, and the time was just at hand when Con- 
stance M as about to give her friend a farew^ell kiss, 
she saw her brother coming down the avenue, and 
could not but feel agitated at his approach. For 
although Helen had said nothing to her of the 
avoM'al of his sentiments, he had himself told his 
sister of all that had happened, and SM orn her for 
the present to secrecy, lie entered the room, not 
with the same fervent air and expression as Mhen 
they last met, but with a tenderness that was far 
more irresistible to poor Helen’s soul. A visit to 
an orphan who had just buried her best — not her 
only friend — was not to be a visit of avowed love, 
but of sympathy and condolence; and Henry 
looked upon her M’ith such profound pity, and 
such consoling gentleness of eye and voice, that 
his mother saw and felt that Helen Eyre M’as dear- 
er to him than life. That sudden conviction gave 
her a pang, and her countenance fell and was 
darkened. It is a sore affliction to a mother’s 
heart to have her fond, and proud, and aspiring 
hopes of an only son crushed, and nothing substi- 
tuted in their stead, but what she conceives dis- 
honour and degradation. But she kneM' the depth 
of her son’s affection for Helen Eyre from his anx- 
iety to restrain and conceal it; and being well 
aware of his determined character, she perceived 
that there was no chance of averting from her 
house the stain of such a marriage, except it were 


HELKN BYRE. 


353 


to be found in the quiet and humble soul of the 
orphan, who might be dissuaded from entering 
mto a family to which an alliance with her would 
be considered a disgrace. Mrs. Beaumont’s agi- 
tation at last became manifest ; and, as frequently 
feelings are brought to a crisis of a sudden, and 
by some unexpected movement or sally of temper 
so was it now — for Henry discerned what was 
passing in his mother’s mind — and from an un- 
controllable impulse, avowed his love for Helen 
Eyre, and his resolution to make her his wife. 
“ She has confessed that she loves me, and no 
power on earth has a right to keep us asunder : — 
mother, I grieve to oftend or distress you, but you 
must receive Helen Eyi'e as your daughter.” 

At any other time this bold avowal would have 
sent as much anger as grief into the proud spirit 
of Mrs. Beaumont. But she had loved her dead 
friend with exceeding affection — her voice seemed 
yet to whisper along the walls — tl>ey were all sit- 
ting together in deep mourning for her loss — and 
the meek face of the guileless orphan was enough 
to quiet all angry emotion, and to inspire some- 
thing of the same calm spirit with which it was so 
serenely suffused. Helen sat almost unmoved, 
nor did she utter a word. But Henry’s mood soon 
changed, and he knelt down at his mother’s feet, 
along with the affectionate Constance. Each took 
hold of one of her hands, kissed it, and bathed it in 
tears. “ Oh, mother ! withhold not your blessings 
from sweet Helen Eyre,” said Constance, with a 
dewy voice of supplication: “you knew she wiJJ 
be the blessing of Henry’s life here, and prepare 
his soul for heaven : — you know that she will be as 
loving and dutiful a daughter even as myself: 
— you know how your friend loved her, and bless- 
ed her name to you, and wept for the sake of all 


S54 


HELEN EYRE. 


ner goodness. Oh,’ mother ! feai not that thu 
marriage wants only your sanction to make it a 
nappy marriage indeed 1” The lady’s heart wag 
melted within her, and she said, “ Helen Eyre, 
thou art an orphan no more — come and kneel 
down between my children.” Helen did so with 
many sobs of overwhelming happiness, and bowed 
down her head almost to the floor. The mother of 
her lover laid her hand upon that head, and bless- 
ed her in God’s holy nam 3 ; and then all three 
rising from their knees, Henry Beaumont pressed 
Helen Eyre to his bosom, and kissed away hei 
tears then and for ever. 


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